Spinning
by darcyfarrow
Summary: When he spins he's no longer the runt, the cripple. For the first time in his life, Rumple is powerful. The rise and fall and rise again of the spinner. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

One

His four brothers and two sisters, even the younger ones, are all taller than he is. Except for his youngest sister Helewise they all call him "the runt"—rarely affectionately, for competition is high in a large family that possesses few resources. Their father Eustace's occupation is pig farmer, which already sets the family at the bottom of the social scale; but his _profession_ is drunkard. Their mother Albreda spends most of her time doing Eustace's work, leaving the household chores for the children, and since his brothers have hired out and his sisters are too small, that means most of the housework falls to Rumplestiltskin. Eustace would have protested this indignity for his son, except that Rumplestiltskin is lame and not sturdy enough for farm work. . . and Rumple isn't really Eustace and Abreda's son. As they remind him whenever he fails.

Eustace traded a shoat for him when Rumple was an infant.

The story goes—and Rumple has no cause to think it's untrue—that a woodsman carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle wandered in to Loameth one morning. He went from villager to villager, starting with the well-dressed ones, and tried to sell the bundle, which he claimed to have found on the road—though many thought this claim suspicious. Most of the villagers waved him off; those who considered his offer changed their minds as soon as the blanket was pulled back and they could see the baby was indeed a runt.

Eustace happened to have been deep in his cups that day.

Rumple doesn't know how old he is. He knows, because his family reminds him, he's smaller than other boys his age; he's the size of a five-year-old, but he can do everything a seven-year-old can do, despite his lameness, and he's smarter than most nine-year-olds: he can calculate sums in his head (the one skill his father praises him for). . .

And he can read. No one else in his family can, so he keeps it a secret. A neighbor taught him and he picked up on it right away. Sometimes he dares to sneak off to see that neighbor and devour the man's library: four entire books, plus two fragments. At these times Rumple doesn't feel lonely any more and he dares to hope he'll someday be as rich as the neighbor.

One day Eustace calls him outside. Rumple can't tell if he's been drinking—his natural state these days is drunkenness—but Eustace grabs him by the arm and directs him without explanation down the road. Silent hours later, they arrive in Alsford, a village twice the size of Loameth. Rumple is fascinated and overwhelmed—and nearly run over by a donkey cart.

Eustace takes him to a hut near the center of town. He hullos and an elderly man comes out. The man looks Rumple up and down, then inspects the boy's hands—and smiles. He reaches into his purse for coins, which he passes to Eustace. "His name is Rumplestiltskin," Eustace says, then without a goodbye the pig farmer walks away.

Rumple starts after him, but the old man stays him. "You work for me now. My name is Saer." He pushes back the heavy curtain that covers the entrance into the hut. "Welcome, Rumplestiltskin. This is your home now."

Saer shows him around the hut, points out the mat in the corner upon which Rumple is to sleep. The hut is the same size as Eustace's, which is to say, it's quite spacious, because only Saer lives in it. It's a whole lot cleaner too, which is remarkable because Saer is nearly blind.

That's why he's purchased Rumple, he explains; the boy will be his apprentice, learning the trade and the art of spinning. He will produce yarn from wool and will sell the yarn to be woven into clothing and blankets.

Rumple is pleased. At last, something he does will earn money, will be rewarded, and there will be no more housework, for his time is valuable now.

Saer leads Rumple to the spinning wheel, which takes pride of place in the center of the room, near the fireplace. Saer sits him down at the bench and invites him to watch as Saer spins. They don't speak, and Rumple soon finds the steady rotation of the wheel and the clicking of the treadle put him to a strange state, asleep but alert at the same time.

He wants this for himself. He begs to be taught. The old man nods. "Aye, you'll do, lad."

There's much to learn: how to select, wash, comb, card and dye the wool; how to identify, clean and assemble the spinning wheel, how to use a hand spindle. Days later, Saer calls him back to the bench and guides his hands as he threads the wheel and begins to spin. "To the right, lad, always spin to the right."

"Why?"

"Bad magic otherwise. Only a holy man may spin to the left."

Rumple smiles over his shoulder at the old man. "Look!" He's producing something that will soon become something else, something people need, something that will last for years; someday, when he walks through this town, he will see the results of his work on people's backs.

And then the old man stands away, leaving Rumple alone at the wheel, _trusting_ Rumple to be alone at the wheel, for Rumple realizes that it's his most precious possession. It's been not just his livelihood but his life.

Rumple sets both hands on the wheel and turns it slowly, listening to its soft rumble. He feels the vibrations beneath his fingers.

The old man tells him he's a natural; whereas other boys would quickly grow bored, Rumple has found the spinner's secret place, a place in his mind he can retreat to, where the world is blacked out, memories are pushed away, dreams are distant, and there's only solitude. Rumple's hands, the old man says, are large and his fingers are long, and that will be an advantage; his small body is an advantage too.

When he spins he's no longer the runt, the cripple. For the first time in his life, Rumple is powerful.


	2. Chapter 2

Two

In the evenings before supper, Saer encourages Rumple to go outside and play with the other children. Across the road live Gilbert and Mazelina, whose parents are furniture makers; next door lives Gamel, who's apprenticed to an undertaker; up the road are more children, many of them apprenticed or working in their parents' shops, for this is the artisan district.

Gamel tells Rumple there are many other districts in this city and someday Gamel will visit them all. Rumple believes this because an undertaker's work takes him everywhere. Gamel sometimes puts on a black coat and a tall black hat with a black feather and walks along behind the hearse. When he is older, he will be allowed to drive.

Gilbert and Mazelina ignore Rumple. Mazelina looks down her narrow nose at him and says he's "common"; she sees much difference in the social status of a furniture maker and a spinner. Gilbert follows Mazelina's lead; it amuses him to have a boy he can push around, living just across the street. He doesn't dare lord it over Gamel, for everyone is afraid of the undertaker.

One day a trio of cousins visits the furniture maker's household. Two of them are girls, nearly Mazelina's age, and they run off giggling to admire dresses in the dressmaker's window. But one of the cousins is a boy, older than Gilbert, and he resents the intrusion of the younger boy on his time. He has been ordered to "play nice" with Gilbert, despite the fact that he considers himself too mature to play and certainly too old to be seen associating with Gilbert.

To impress his cousin, Gilbert lures Rumple into the alley and amid the slops barrels and the horse droppings and the rotting garbage, Gilbert thrashes Rumple. It's quick work, for Rumple has never learned to fight, though he has had plenty of practice in protecting his head from the blows of bigger boys. The cousin is not impressed and Gilbert runs home crying. The cousin wanders away, but not before searching Rumple's pockets for money or trinkets. When he finds none he expresses his disappointment by booting Rumple in the ribs.

Rumple limps to the communal well and washes the blood from his face. As he turns to go into Saer's hut for supper, Rumple discovers he's been watched. The old man had understanding enough of the interactions of boys not to interfere. He sets Rumple down on his own bed and tends the boy's wounds, then feeds him a spicy lamb stew. He says nothing about the incident; instead, he suggests that Rumple make tomorrow's trip to market on his own. "I have too much to do here," Saer says. "After you sell the thread, you may stay a while. You may spend two pence as you see fit." He pats the boy's shoulder.

After supper Rumple returns to the wheel and works by firelight. As soon as he touches the spindle his aches disappear; as he turns the wheel, watching the spokes fade in and out of sight, he forgets Gilbert. And when on the morrow he returns to the hut and lays four ducats in the old man's hand, he stands tall, for he is a businessman now.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

"It is time for you to marry," Saer announces as he serves the morning meal.

Rumplestiltskin breaks his bread and slathers butter on it. Butter is a precious commodity; in the artisan district, only Saer's household enjoys it on a daily basis, and that is because of Rumplestiltskin's skills, those of his quick tongue as well as his patient hands, as he has established himself as a tough trader. This has not endeared him to his neighbors, particularly Gilbert; his financial success, along with his lameness, has made him a target for highwaymen. He has been beaten and robbed several times.

His experiences have made him no braver. His years have made him not much stronger.

"I spoke with a man from Asurwen today. His village needs a spinner. His daughter is of marrying age."

Rumplestiltskin has never thought of marriage. From what he's seen, it holds no attraction for him. But this isn't really about producing heirs or finding his happy ever after; it's about Saer. The old man is dying. They don't discuss it but when Saer's coughing interrupts their slumber and Rumple assists the old man in changing from his blood-splattered nightclothes, they acknowledge the truth without speaking it. Saer doesn't want to leave Rumple alone.

Rumple would, in truth, prefer to be alone, but he would gladly trade his bachelorhood to ease Saer's mind, and so he agrees to meet the Asurwen man and his daughter. They have, after all, come a long way. By noon he is betrothed. There will be no dowry, of course, but Estrilda's family will provide a home for Saer.

In a way, Rumplestiltskin has been sold for the third time in his life.

The couple is married the next morning. They pack their clothes in knapsacks and set out afoot for Asurwen. It's a three-day journey and along the way she casts frustrated glances at him for his lameness; he bites his lip and struggles to keep up. They are footsore when they reach the outskirts of the village. When they stop at the communal well, he sets his walking stick aside to offer her a drink. He is leaning over the well, hauling the bucket up, when she shrieks. Everything goes black after that.

He awakens to find his hair coated in blood and a cluster of strangers standing about. His wife directs the townsfolk to carry him to the spinner's hut, which now belongs to him. He asks for his walking stick and she fetches it, explaining it had been used against him. In broad daylight, in the center of town, he had been beaten and robbed.

And so ends Rumplestiltskin's honeymoon. For several days, he's too disoriented to work, let alone perform his duties as a bridegroom. When he has recovered, the look of disgust on his wife's face as he touches her makes him withdraw.

He can't blame her. After all, she is only sixteen and she had been promised a man, not a coward.

Ah, but when he threads the wheel and begins to spin. . . .

And when he sells his yarn at market and presses six gold ducats into her hand, she kisses him. Perhaps he is not a man, but he is a provider, and that's pleasing in her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Four

He teaches her to read; she teaches him to fight.

It happens like this: he returns from the market with their profits, which she places in a clay jar she hides in a hole she's dug beneath her sleeping mat, for, wisely, she fears robbers. She calls it the "someday jar." He has brought, too, a gift of a silver comb for her long black hair, and for himself, a book called _The Odyssey_. He is almost as rich as his former neighbor, for he now owns three complete books and the fragment of a fourth.

She twists her hair into a bun and secures it with the comb, then she serves him his dinner. As he eats, he reads. He shouldn't; the grease on his fingers might smudge the book, but he can't resist. The book is wonderfully illustrated with hand-colored pictures, and Estrilda, peering over his shoulder as she serves him, is captivated.

She points to the gilded words embossed on the leather cover. "What does this say?"

And then he realizes she can't read.

"Read to me," she urges, and he does, and subtly he begins to teach her without her realizing it. He points to each word as he reads it, pronouncing it clearly and slowly. He reads to her in this way every night after supper, until one afternoon, as he looks up from the wool he's carding, he finds her standing at the mantle above the fireplace, her fingertips brushing the bindings of his three books, and she takes one of the books down. She runs her hand across the cover, feeling each embossed letter, and under her breath she pronounces the title.

She sits down on the stool where she does her knitting and opens the book. She stares at the page a long time as he watches her from the corner of his eye; and then she turns the page and stares long and hard at the next one, trailing a finger beneath the lines.

Softly, so as not to disturb her concentration, he urges, "Read to me."

And she does.

On the day before the next market day, she is distracted. She spills his tea on the table and burns the oat cakes. When he asks the reason for her nervousness, she says, "There are reports of a band of highwaymen on the road leading to market."

"That would be a reasonable place for highwaymen to be," he quips, but she pulls a mouth at him, letting him know this is no joking matter.

As she swabs up the spilled tea with a cloth, she asks in a low voice, "Rumplestiltskin, would you like children someday?"

He chokes on an oat cake.

She can't look him in the eye. "I would like children."

He gulps down some tea, and when he finds his voice he admits he too would like children. Tactfully, he neglects to mention that after three months of marriage, they still sleep on mats on opposite sides of the hut. He's not sure if she knows how children are produced; it's just not a seemly subject for a man to discuss with a woman.

Having grown up on a pig farm, in a one-room hut where six children had been produced, he knows how it's done, and it's something he'd rather not talk about with anyone.

"I would like for my children to have books, and a bed to sleep in, and shoes in the winter," she adds.

He agrees these are worthy goals.

"That's why the someday jar must be filled. And why we must protect it from robbers."

He agrees this makes sense, so she picks up his walking stick and holds it as a barrier across her body. "Rumplestiltskin, this stick can protect you, and our someday money."

And she proceeds to teach him how. When they sweating and panting with their exertions, she sets the stick aside and teaches him how to use the flat of his hand to break a nose or the heel of his boot to break an ankle. . . or his fingers to gouge an eye.

He stares at his bride with amazement. "No, no, I couldn't—I couldn't do those things."

"If you do those things, you will live to run away."

So he accepts her instruction, for the sake of their someday children.

That evening, as she knits beside the fireplace and he reads from _The Odyssey_, it's his turn to be distracted. "Estrilda, how do you know these things: the breaking of a nose or the gouging of an eye?"

She lowers her head over her skein of yarn. For a long time she doesn't answer. Finally she does: "My brother."

"Your brother taught you to fight? Why?"

"There was a man." She doesn't say more for several minutes; he grants her her privacy. When she continues, she gives so little of the story that he's never sure he understands it correctly. "He watched me when I went to the well for water, when I went to the woods for kindling. For years he watched me, and one evening he followed, and he put his hands on me. I told only my brother. I was ashamed. My brother said it was my fault, but he showed me what to do, so when the man followed me again, I could get away."

"Did the man follow you again?"

"Yes. Twice more."

Rumple's heart leaps into his throat. "And you fought and got away?"

She murmurs, "The second time I did. The first time, I was too afraid."

She offers no more, and he doesn't press. He retreats to his wheel to spin and think.

When he goes to market next, he walks differently. He still leans on his walking stick, but his head is raised, and when a passerby glares at him, he glares back. He returns from the market safely.

There are occasions, however, when he must put into practice some of the lessons Estrilda has taught him. He is judicious about it: when three men attack him on the dark road, he reaches into his pouch and withdraws a handful of coins and throws them in the opposite direction; the men chase the scattered money and he runs into the woods, remaining hidden until they've gone. But when a lone robber arrests him, he thrusts his stick into the man's belly, and when the man doubles over, Rumple smashes a fist into the man's nose. It's enough; Rumple lives to run away.

When he sits at his wheel the next day, his knuckles ache but he is smiling.

On the one hundred and fortieth day of their marriage, as they sit by the fire at their respective chores, Estrilda murmurs, "Rumplestiltskin. . ."

He stops the wheel.

Her hair, having come loose from the comb, hides her face. "I am not. . . I am not a virgin."

His hands drop into his lap.

"Rumplestiltskin, do you want me to leave?"

He answers without hesitation. "No. Do you want to leave?"

She answers through the curtain of her hair. "No."

He sits silently a while, his hands in his lap, and then he begins to spin again, and she resumes her knitting.

On the one hundred and sixtieth night of their marriage, she asks again if he wants children. He says he does, and she asks if he will come to her sleeping mat tonight. In the darkness he can't see her face as he touches her, but he can feel her body respond to him and withdraw from him at the same time.

When she has fallen asleep he rises and retreats to his spinning wheel.

On the one hundred and sixty-fourth night of their marriage, she asks him again to come to her, and he does. His body takes comfort and satisfaction from hers, and she kisses him, but she doesn't touch him. When he returns to his own sleeping mat he is ashamed.

There are other nights; they end the same.

On the two hundred and ninth day of their marriage, she tells him there will be a baby. They smile as they complete their daily chores. That evening as he spins, he imagines small hands on the wheel, his own large hands guiding.

She no longer invites him to her sleeping mat, but it doesn't matter. There will be a baby.

When he comes home from the market next, he brings a small book that lists names and ascribes meanings to them. They learn that "Rumplestiltskin" is a goblin that rattles the posts of buildings and that "Estrilda" means "warrior goddess."

She chooses "Adela"—"noble"—for she wishes her daughter to be proud . He chooses "Baelfire"—"signal fire" —for his son will always be the light that brings Rumplestiltskin home.

Through the winter and the spring he spins and waits and smiles.


	5. Chapter 5

Five

**A/N. Hi, everyone, and thanks for all the encouraging notes! When I started "Spinning," I thought it would be a half-dozen Rumple character sketches, connected by the motif of spinning. But then I met Estrilda. . . . Once Season 2 of OUAT begins, I may find this story is completely off-base or I may find I guessed right. Either way, Estrilda's proving to having quite an interesting future ahead of her.**

* * *

Sometimes Estrilda cries in her sleep. Sometimes she kicks at enemies invading her dreams, and one night she even rose straight up, her eyes open but sightless, and shrieked. It's been like this since they married. Not every night, but enough nights to cause Rumple worry.

In the beginning of their marriage he pretended not to notice. He assumed that in due order she'd come to trust him, and then either her nightmares would vanish or she'd talk to him about them. That was not to be.

One night when her dream seems especially fierce, he comes to her mat and kneels, touching her shoulder to awaken her; she sits up abruptly and smacks him. Ignoring his bleeding nose, he tries to hold her, but she pushes him away. He moves out of her reach but talks to her in a soothing voice, and she lies down and goes back to sleep.

From then on, he doesn't try to awaken her again, or touch her in her sleep. He stays on his side of the hut and talks to her until she returns to sleep.

And so he works doubly hard at his spinning. He learns how to spin thread so fine that it's nearly invisible, and he walks boldly up to the servants' entrances of the largest estates and sells his thread, bargaining hard. It takes every ounce of courage he can summon to bring him to these doors, and every elegantly obsequious word he has learned from his books to make a successful salesman out of a pig farmer's adopted son, for the techniques which work on his fellow craftsmen at the common marketplace are hardly suitable for the servants who sew for nobility. He finds that flattery, when spooned out judiciously, with just enough truth to be convincing, will earn him double the price the thread is worth, and so he learns to bow and scrape, and he learns to play the nobles against each other, and he learns to trade gossip along with his thread.

He finds that catering to the servants of nobles is, in some respects, much dirtier than catering to pigs. But he does it for Baelfire—or Adela, as the case may be.

With the money he makes, he buys a bed for Estrilda, with warm blankets and soft pillows; he buys sturdy shoes and dresses and a fur-lined cloak and gadgets that make her housework easier. He mends the leaks in the roof and replaces the heavy drape over the hut's entrance with a real door. His sales calls take him farther from home; as his reputation grows, he is summoned to households farther and farther away; but when he returns with his pouch filled with ducats, he brings her candies and books filled with cheerful stories and poems.

She thanks him with a shy kiss each time, her eyes shining, one hand resting on her expanding belly. She is comfortable, far more than the other wives in this part of the village; some of them glare at her with envy, but others look for excuses to visit her hut and partake of her hospitality. She gains friends, some of them good friends with whom to share the workload.

She's happy, he's sure of it, and the baby is thriving; he can feel Bae—or Adela, as the case may be—kick vigorously. She permits him to touch her belly as often as he likes. They continue their reading lessons—and sometimes fighting lessons, for now he has so much more money to tempt the robbers—and they talk easily of the events of the day, their plans for Bae—or Adela, as the case may be—but never of their pasts.

And the nightmares continue. They come less often and seem less severe, but they continue. In frustration one morning at breakfast he asks her what she dreams that gives her such worry.

Her answer is mild, but her eyes snap at him. "Be content, husband. You've provided for me far better than I had a right to hope. You've given me such luxuries that the neighbors look at me with green eyes. And you've given me what I wanted most," she pats her belly meaningfully. "So content yourself, and leave my dreams to me."

"But—" he sputters—"it can't be good for Bae that you have these nightmares."

"Adela"—she corrects him—"is content. So should be her father."

She permits no further discussion.

Angry at himself as well as her, he can't spin; he spends the day working out his frustrations by carding wool.


	6. Chapter 6

Six

And then, for the first time in his life, he experiences magic—and, as it will in the future, magic takes away from him far more than it gives.

It's harvest time, and the village is celebrating. The crops have been good; the pigs and lambs have grown fat. Any day now, the spinner and his wife will celebrate a harvest of their own: their child has shifted in the womb, and the midwife says Bae—or Adela, as the case may be—will arrive before the week is out.

But Estrilda has yet to experience pains, so, though she finds both walking and sitting uncomfortable, she wants to join in the celebration. She and Rumple join in the feast, seating themselves at one of the long wooden tables set up outside in the center of town. The table is laden with meats and vegetables and four kinds of bread, and as a special treat, butter and buttermilk that Rumple has provided.

After the feast, entertainment begins: a pair of gypsy dancers, then a juggler, then a team of acrobats, a minstrel, an actor reciting Shakespearean monologues, and finally, the headliner, a mage.

Rumple sniffs. The man is obviously a phony, for no true mage would lower himself to performing for coins. In fact, Rumple whispers to Estrilda, a real mage would have no interest in money.

But Estrilda shushes him. From the moment Wimarc the Magnificent appears on stage, in a puff of purple smoke, she is captivated. Rumple helps himself to another slice of rye bread as Wimarc turns a hat into a dove and back. When Wimarc turns a pitcher of buttermilk into wine, Rumple chomps on a carrot. When Wimarc makes a roast pig vanish, Rumple complains, "Hey, I was going to eat that." Wimarc brings the suckling pig back again, and Rumple merely grunts: he refuses to be impressed.

Until Wimarc makes the village jailor rise ten feet into the air and hover. Rumple takes notice then.

Estrilda, however, is enraptured. After the mage's performance she insists on speaking to him. Without consulting her husband, she invites Wimarc for supper the next night. Wimarc agrees, and Estrilda spends all the next day tidying the hut and preparing the meal.

As she serves him, Estrilda asks her honored guest question after question, and she listens to his answers so intently that Rumple suspects she's memorizing every word. Rumple is jealous. He eats his turnips and beets—and eats his heart out. After the meal he retreats to his wheel, but one ear remains cocked on the conversation continuing at the table. The tension transfers from his body to the wheel and he breaks his leader.

Estrilda asks how one becomes a mage. "Is magic something you're born with, or can it be acquired?"

Wimarc answers, "A few, a very few, are born; most mages gain their magic in one of three ways."

"Yes," Rumple mutters under his breath. "Lying, cheating or fakery."

"The simplest way is to learn how to control objects that are magic, like fairy dust or realm jumping hats. There is danger in this, of course, because such magic can easily be lost or taken away. The second way to acquire magic is through a curse."

"A curse?" Estrilda is perplexed. "I should think that magic would be considered a gift."

The mage shakes his head. "A curse. Magic is not the gift it seems; it takes more away from its wielder than it gives. It's said that if you kill a cursed mage, his power will be transferred to you—but then, so will everything else about the curse."

"And the third way to acquire magic?"

"Through a bargain with the Source of All Magic or one of its offspring."

"What is' the Source of All Magic'?"

Wimarc shrugs. "I've never seen it, but we all know it exists. It's where magic originated, and it continues to fuel all magic. It can give magic and it can take it away, at whim."

"Is it a person? A god?"

"No one knows for sure. It's said, though, that the Source existed before time began and will exist after time ends. But, many centuries ago, the Source was lonely, so it created earth and all the animals and mankind. And that was amusing, but the Source was still lonely because none of his creation was like him. So the Source created two beings, upon whom he bestowed great powers and immortality. One of those beings was the Blue Star, who was tasked with serving man. The other was a being called the Morning Star. His task was to serve the Source. But the Morning Star—his name in Latin is 'Lucifer'—was corrupted by his own powers and he sought to rise above his station. The Source banished the Morning Star, throwing him into a place of eternal torment, and the Morning Star vowed to get revenge by attacking mankind."

It's a most fascinating story, Rumple has to admit, as full of adventure as _The Odyssey_. From the corner of his eye, the spinner can see that to his wife, the tale is more than an entertainment. Later, he will have to have a long talk with Estrilda about the difference between fiction and history.

When the mage leaves, Rumple doesn't get up to see him out. He merely grunts a goodbye. As soon as Wimarc is gone, Rumple is ready to pick a fight. He walks away from his wheel and approaches his wife. Before he can express his jealousy, Estrilda begins to babble. He's never seen her so talkative, so animated; he wonders if he should encourage it—and then he remembers he's jealous and needs to get this conversation back on track. He starts to say something rude about Wimarc, but Estrilda interrupts. She prattles on for nearly an hour.

When he finally puts aside his jealousy long enough to listen, he realizes it's not Wimarc she's interested in: it's the magic.

He returns to his wheel to think about that.


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

The morning after the harvest festival, Rumplestiltskin is awakened by an urgent pounding at his door. As he rises, stumbling into his trousers, Estrilda too awakens; he offers his hand to help her rise from her bed. When he opens the door, both a chill wind and a panting boy sweep into the hut. Estrilda brings the boy a dipper of water. When he's caught his breath, he drinks and delivers a message: "You are Rumplestiltskin?"

"Yes."

"Osbert bids you come quick. Saer is dying."

Rumple hesitates; Estrilda hands him his walking stick and his cloak. "Go. Your daughter will wait. Tell my parents I'm well."

Rumple gives the runner a coin before rushing out. Although his sales calls have strengthened him, Rumple still limps, especially on a cold morning, and the four miles to Osbert's farm are all uphill. He feels in his bones even as he starts out that he is too late, but he tries.

He is indeed too late. Estrilda's mother leads him to Saer's bedroom and gives him a moment alone with his old mentor. Rumple lowers his head in shame and regret: he has been so pre-occupied with his business that he never came these four miles to visit Saer, nor has he brought his wife to visit her parents. He will make amends for the latter as soon as Estrilda and Bae can travel, but. . . .

He looks at the old man's face. The lines around the mouth and eyes are deeper than he remembers, but Saer had gained some weight since Rumple saw him last. Rumple will thank Osbert and Clotild for that. They have kept their bargain, providing well for their houseguest, giving him their own bed and bedroom, while they took the room Estrilda and her sisters once shared. A vase of fresh wildflowers on the nightstand shows the extent of their care.

Clotild raps on the door and enters. "Will you take tea with us, Rumplestiltskin?"

With a last look at his mentor, Rumple follows her to the kitchen, where Osbert waits. They drink their tea and he shares the report of Estrilda's health. "The baby will come a few days. I'm sure Estrilda would be much comforted if her mother could be there for the birthing."

Clotild agrees. "She should not be alone now." She glances at her husband, who explains, "Saer made a request of you, Rumplestiltskin. He asked that you take his body back to Alsford to be buried."

Rumple opens and closes his mouth, unable to make a choice. Clotild assures him, "I'll go to Estrilda immediately. Go and do your duty, Rumplestiltskin, and leave women's work to us women. After all, we've been birthing babies for centuries."

So Rumple rents a donkey cart to carry the body, spending money from the someday jar, but Estrilda agrees it's what he owes his mentor. He kisses her cheek and touches her belly, then takes the donkey's bridle.

It's a slow, sad journey. Along the way, he talks to the donkey—but he's really talking to Saer, saying the things that matter.

Like most Frontlanders, Rumple believes that men and women have souls, but he's not sure if the soul lives after the body dies. Like most Frontlanders, he is certain that worlds beyond his own exist; he's heard that certain mages can go to those worlds. Once, after an afternoon with Gamel, Rumple had returned to Saer with questions of life and death on his mind. The old man had told him a fanciful tale about a lake, the waters of which could restore anything lost; according to some poets and minstrels, Lake Nostros could even bring back the dead.

"Do you believe it's true?" Rumple had asked.

"If it is, it's a crying shame," Saer declared. "Who would want to be called back to this world when your soul has soared with the eagles?"

As he leads the donkey, Rumple hopes that Saer's soul is soaring high.

* * *

"Rumplestiltskin! Good to see you, old friend!" A voice calls out to him across the village square. He stops the donkey and waits. Gamel comes at a trot, his hand outthrust for a handshake even before he's reached the cart.

"And you, Gamel. You appear well." Rumple takes note of his former neighbor's fine clothes.

"The business has been profitable," Gamel admits. "What brings—" and then he sees the contents of the cart. "Oh. Am I correct in assuming you'll be needing my services?"

"You are."

"Saer?"

"Yes."

Gamel sounds sincere. "I'm sorry, Rumple. He was a good man."

The spinner can only nod.

"Come with me, then. I've moved shop since you were here last, to a bigger location. I'll make certain Saer is well taken care of."

It's a short walk to a neighborhood of bigger houses, Gamel's house being on the small end for this area but also the newest. His shop is next door to the house. As they approach, a young woman with hair the color of a robin's breast runs from the house and seizes Gamel with a squeal. He lifts her and swings her about, kissing her; when he sets her down again, still locked in her arms, he remembers his manners. "Rumple, this is my wife, Goda. Darling, this is Rumplestiltskin."

She extracts herself, smoothes her dress and offers her hand, which Rumple shakes. "Pleased to meet you, Rumplestiltskin. Gamel's spoken of you often. You are welcome."

"He brings another old friend, Saer the spinner," Gamel nods to the cart. He then calls "Ralf" and a boy of ten or eleven dashes out of the shop. "Take the cart to the delivery entrance," he instructs the boy. "Get Fulkin to help you prepare Saer. And then take the cart to the livery." The boy grabs the donkey's bridle and moves away.

"I'm sorry it's such sad circumstances that bring you back to town," Goda says, "but we will do our best to make you and him comfortable." It occurs to Rumplestiltskin, as she links her arm in his and leads him into the parlor, that she's not what one might expect for an undertaker's wife: she's bubbly and loquacious, an instant friend-maker—and that makes her exactly right for the position, for her friendliness puts the customer at ease and builds trust for her husband.

And she's exactly right for Gamel. That's evident as she serves tea and the undertaker follows her with his eyes, even while talking business.

"We'll conduct the ceremony tomorrow at eleven o'clock. Typically, I start by reading a favorite poem or fable of the deceased, and then I'll speak of my own memories of him. Then we invite close friends and relatives to talk for a few minutes, sharing their memories. I like to end with a bit of music, something that the deceased particularly liked; I have a pipe player with a broad knowledge of all kinds of music. Goda can prepare a luncheon for the guests; she's a wonderful cook. I hope to show off her skills to you, if you'll stay the night with us. We have a second bedroom. . . for a future permanent occupant." He grins meaningfully at his wife, who gives him a playful swat.

"I would be honored," Rumple says. He hasn't given thought to his accommodations. "Saer couldn't read, so there is no favorite poem. I'm not sure about the song; his favorite may not be appropriate for a funeral."

Gamel smiles. "Whatever will bring us memories of the deceased, that's what we like to use. Whatever will celebrate his life." He calls his apprentice back in and sends the boy for the town crier. Together he and Rumple write out an announcement of the funeral, and the crier sets out immediately; Gamel has instructed him to canvass the entire village twice over, to be certain the message is heard.

After that, Rumple eases back in the cushioned chair they've provided him. Gamel and his team will take care of the rest; he can relax after his long journey. Goda runs a bath for him; after he's washed, he shaves, studying his face in the mirror hanging in the bathing room. Mirrors being scarce, he's seldom seen his own reflection.

His face is broad-cheeked and sunburnt; his chin and mouth, narrow. With his hair wet and pushed back, he can see that his ears are rather pointed. His nose fights with his eyes for prominence: the nose declares itself; it's a long, strong feature with a bump in the middle. The nose announces to the world that Rumplestiltskin has fought his way through life and will fight again. His eyes, however, tell a contradictory story. They're large and dark and revealing, and the story they tell is of a past of pain and an expectation of more pain, suspicion and doubt—and, to his frustration, a fear that will never go away.

It's no wonder, he thinks, that Estrilda doesn't confide in him: his eyes tell her he can do nothing for her, since he can't even help himself.

He wonders, then, how it is he's done so well in his bargaining. Is that power all in his voice, his words? He starts to think about the yarn he makes, colorful and strong, producing clothes that withstand the weather and sweat and toil. He thinks about the thread he makes, light as a fairy's wing, delicate as the silk and satin of a queen's ball gown. When he looks in the mirror again his eyes have changed: they now boast; they promise juicy tidbits of gossip along with the highest quality thread; they flatter and flirt.

He wonders if Estrilda sees these eyes when she looks across the supper table. . . when she lays her hand protectively over her belly and thinks of the nights he shared her sleeping mat. . . when she awakens from a nightmare and seeks him with her eyes only, never with her voice or her hands, for she doesn't want him close; she just wants to know he's still there.

He shaves and dresses in the clean clothes he brought with him, and then he joins Goda and Gamel in their parlor again to talk of the old days and other inconsequentials. Golda has pushed her chair so close to Gamel's that the two chairs seem to be one piece of furniture. Her hand, clasped in his, rests on his knee, and sometimes she leans her head against his shoulder.

He longs to ask them how this happened. Did they fall in love, or was love something they learned to give to and take from each other? How did they come to be so easy with one another that they can finish each other's thoughts and share a memory without even speaking it? Is it friendship, affection or passion they feel for one another, or is it all three at once? In the darkness as they lie waiting for sleep, does he tell her his troubles and hopes and does she share them? Does she give back her own stories?

He has seen no marriage like this before. He's driven to know where it came from and where it will go. But he won't ask: it's not a seemly thing for a man to talk about.

At sunrise the town crier makes the rounds again, announcing the funeral at eleven o'clock. Goda and a neighbor lady busy themselves in the kitchen, first with breakfast, then with preparations for the luncheon. The piper arrives and Rumplestiltskin informs him of the song he's to play: the piper doesn't bat an eye. Gamel takes down several books of poems and Rumplestiltskin selects one. At half past ten Gamel, Goda and Rumple dress in their best clothes; Ralf in his black coat and black-feathered hat brings the hearse around; and the procession to the graveyard begins. It passes through the village square so that all will know and will have the chance to join in.

No one does.

At first Rumplestiltskin doesn't notice; his thoughts are trained on the man in the hearse. He remembers random moments, most of them trivial: Saer stoking the fire to heat the hut before his little apprentice arose from his sleeping mat on a cold morning; Saer chopping onions for a stew; Saer nodding off in his chair after supper. Rumple remembers all the lessons Saer taught him, both the lessons Saer wanted him to learn and the lessons Saer wasn't aware he was teaching: the power of a smile, the strength of a kind word, the mystery of a spinning wheel. Always the wheel. The wheel, Rumple had come to know, is the circle of life. The wheel, Rumple knows now, is life unending; it's life's victory over death.

The ceremony begins, and then Rumple notices that none of the villagers have come to the grave, not a single one. Gamel reads the poem and speaks beautiful words of his own fond memories of Saer. He invites Rumple to do the same; Rumple speaks of his first day with Saer and the introduction to the spinning wheel. Gamel keeps the proceedings running smoothly so that it won't be too obvious that none of the villagers have come to offer their memories of the old spinner.

The piper plays the song; even though it's not appropriate for a funeral, it's appropriate for Saer: "Bring Us in Good Ale." Gamel recognizes the tune and grins, and it's just what Saer would have wanted.

But he would have been crushed to find that not one of his former neighbors or business associates has taken the time to attend his funeral, and not one comes to the luncheon afterward. Quietly Goda removes dishes from the table so that the absence of friends isn't quite as obvious.

Rumple stands by the fire with Gamel, drinking tea and eating lamb stew. It was a fine funeral, Rumple says; he can only hope Gamel will be available to conduct his ceremony, when the time comes. Gamel accepts the compliment with thanks and praise for his old mentor. "We both were taught well," he remarks.

Rumple can be polite no longer. "Why didn't they come? Have they forgotten him so soon? It's only been a year."

Gamel sets his bowl aside and invites Rumple to sit. He is silent for some time, and Rumple can hear Goda in the kitchen speaking in low tones to her neighbor/assistant. Then Gamel answers plainly. "Do you remember the day Gilbert tried to impress his cousin by beating you?"

Rumple reddens.

"That night, after you'd fallen asleep, Saer paid a visit to Gilbert's father. Mazelina watched from the kitchen; she told me this story several years ago, at her father's funeral. Saer demanded that Gilbert be made to apologize; Helyas refused. 'If the boy can't fight his own fights,' he said, 'he had better learn to run with that crutch of his, because he's in for a lifetime of beatings.' 'It's just the nature of things,' Helyas said; 'the runt will always be driven from the herd.' Saer was incensed; he demanded again that the apology be made; Helyas laughed at him. 'What are you going to do to me, old man? You have no power in this town.' Well, Saer picked up a table leg that Helyas had been carving and cracked Helyas' skull with it. Little damage was done, I'm sorry to say. Helyas took the table leg away and threatened Saer; he said something like, 'I'll make you as lame as that worthless boy of yours.' Fortunately, a neighbor intervened before Helyas could make good on the threat. But after that, Helyas proceeded to destroy Saer's reputation and his business with malicious gossip, all of it lies, of course, but he succeeded."

Rumple stares into his tea cup. "If I had not been so cowardly, if I had stood up for myself against Gilbert—"

Gamel spreads his hands. "You would have been beaten just the same, and instead of branding you a coward, you would have been called a fool. When you think of this incident in the future, do Saer the kindness of remembering not that you failed or he failed, but that he loved you that much."

Rumple turns his face away; he can't allow Gamel to see his tears. The undertaker rises, pats Rumple's shoulder comfortingly, then leaves him alone in the room to grieve in private.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

His knee is hot and swollen, but he pushes on. It's a three-day walk from Alsford to Asurwen, but he's determined to make it in two because it's already the end of the week and Bae—or Adela, as the case may be—is expected any day, any hour now. If the donkey can do it, he can. He walks well into the night and he rises well before sunrise. His son needs him.

He's calling out to Estrilda even before he's reached his hut. When one of her friends—he can't remember the woman's name—opens the door, he realizes something's wrong and, abandoning the donkey, he tries to push past the neighbor and go inside. A wall of women blocks him. The first woman places a hand on his chest and pushes him back outside. "She's birthing," the woman explains.

He knows the rule: no men allowed. The father-to-be is expected to wait in the tavern, where he's expected to buy a round of drinks. But before he surrenders to social convention, Rumplestiltskin won't budge until he has an answer: "Is she all right?"

The woman glances over her shoulder for confirmation; the other women nod. With a sigh the first woman admits there's a complication: "It's a breech." The woman adds hastily, "But Zelda is here, and Clotild. Estrilda will be fine."

The door is closed in his face. He wonders who Zelda is. He turns to the donkey, who's cropping grass. He takes the bridle and leads the animal back to the blacksmith.

"So, any minute now, huh?" The blacksmith slaps him on the back as Rumple pays the rental fee.

"Any minute now," Rumple agrees.

"Meet you over at the tavern soon as I rub him down." Samer begins to unhitch the donkey.

The tavern is the last place Rumple wants to be right now. He's already spent most of the someday money; Estrilda will never forgive him if he throws the rest away on beer. Besides, in his frame of mind and state of exhaustion, a single tankard is likely to lay him out flat. But it's expected; his business may suffer if he bucks convention; so he drags himself to the communal well, washes the road dust from his face, then drags himself to the tavern.

* * *

He wakes up in an alley behind the tavern. By the position of the moon, he judges it's an hour or two past midnight. In a panic he searches his pouch: he discovers that by some miracle, he has not been robbed, but only a few ducats of the someday money are left. He tries to stand, wobbles, tumbles back against the tavern and slides to the frosty ground. He can't find his walking stick. He gets to his hands and knees and crawls; he has to get to Bae—or whatshername, as the case may be—but his bad knee gives out and he collapses on his belly. Offended, the belly retaliates by emptying itself all over his shirt.

When he opens his eyes again, Samer is standing over him, laughing. The man hauls him up by the arm as if he were no heavier than a sack of oats. "Next time you'll eat something before you go boozin'." The blacksmith hands him his walking stick and his pouch, then half-carries him to the well to wash.

"My son," Rumple manages.

"Not yet," Samer informs him. "Come on, you can sleep it off in my hayloft."

When he opens his eyes for the third time, his throat is raw, his eyes blurry and his head foggy; his clothes are filthy. He's a disgrace; he can't go home like this. Samer is cleaning out stalls as Rumple stumbles down the loft's ladder. Setting aside his rake, the blacksmith comes to help, leading him to a trough.

"My son?"

"Not yet." Samer hands him a bar of soap and a towel, then walks away.

Rumple strips down to his undergarments. A cold breeze and a dunk in the cold trough revive him. By the time he's scrubbed himself from head to toe, Samer has returned with a change of clothes and a bit of rope. "Here, you're going to have to tie them on," the blacksmith says. He stands back and shakes his head as Rumple disappears in the clothing. After rolling up the shirt sleeves and pant cuffs, Rumple is again visible, but he will have to move slowly to avoid tripping. Just as well; he's too exhausted and nauseated to hurry anyway.

"Thank you," Rumple mumbles, his hand reaching into his pouch for coins.

But the blacksmith waves the money away. "Just bring the clothes back to me when you don't need 'em any more." He winks. "Us fathers got to stick together, huh?"

Rumplestiltskin's face crumbles. For the first time in his life, he's part of a brotherhood, the fraternity of fathers. Not even born yet, and already Bae or Addy has changed Rumple's life.

Samer gives him a brotherly shove. "Better get home. Don't want the little woman worryin', do ya?"

"No, don't want her worryin'." Rumple hurries home and pushes the door open.

Barricaded by women, Estrilda lies on her bed. Her hair sticks to her sweaty face; dark circles under her eyes show the toll her work has taken. The barricade defends her from him, but the midwife—now he remembers: she's Zelda—presents his squalling son to him. The boy is large and his lungs are strong. He has a thick head of black hair. He yawns in his father's face.

Rumplestiltskin is in love.

A commotion in the road interrupts the family moment. Men on horseback gallop into town; they can be heard going door to door and being greeted with curses and shouts of protest. Rumplestiltskin lays the baby in its grandmother's arms, gathers his walking stick, ready to use it as a weapon if need be—but it's not a looting that's in progress, not exactly: it's conscription. The Duke of the Frontlands has ordered his recruiters to scour the flatlands for new draftees.

As Rumplestiltskin steps outside his hut, two soldiers trap him between their horses. "Are we that hard up?" one of them asks, pointing to Rumplestiltskin's leg.

"Take him," the other orders.

The first soldier prods Rumple with a spear. "Move it. Over there."

A group of five bewildered villagers, including two boys not even of shaving age, has been herded into the middle of the road. The spear pokes Rumple along until he's joined the herd.

A bellow like that of an enraged bull tears through the village, and a horse squeals as a soldier flies across the sky. "Let him down or you're a dead man!" Someone shouts. There's more shouting and bellowing and squealing, but eventually Samer is shoved, bleeding from the nose and the forehead, into the herd of recruits. Rumple offers him a strip of cloth to staunch the blood.

And then a soldier barks an order and the herd is prodded forward. "Let me say goodbye to my wife," Rumple begs; no one listens. He shouts back to his mother-in-law, still standing in the doorway with his son clutched tightly against her, as though the soldiers might decide to recruit Bae too. "Keep them safe!"

With one hand clutching his walking stick and the other clutching his rope belt in a vain attempt to keep his pants up, Rumple is pushed forward.

* * *

They march through the morning, stopping at noon at a farm, where the soldiers "liberate" food for the men and horses. The farmer's wife, taking pity, provides Rumple with a change of clothes; her eyes are wild as she gives him the shirt and pants, and he wonders why until a soldier intervenes. The soldier grabs the shirt and holds it up. "Where's he at?"

The woman says nothing.

The soldier tosses the shirt at Rumple, then thrusts his spear at the woman. "The man these clothes are for. Where's he at?"

"He—he's only thirteen," the woman answers faintly.

"Old enough to carry a spear," the soldier insists.

The farmer steps between his wife and the soldier. "He's gone. You'll never find him."

The soldier grins. "We'll just take his daddy, then." He thrusts his spear at the farmer.

* * *

They march. Four days, five; Rumple makes a notch on his walking stick to mark each day he's away from his son. Someday, he swears it, he'll return, and he'll not have forgotten the number of days he's been away, the number of days he must make up for.

When they stop at night, sleeping on blankets the soldiers have "liberated," the army captain tries to instruct them in fighting techniques. They are too tired and too underfed to learn, so they are punished with more marching and with blows from heavy clubs. One of the recruits dies on the fifth day; the soldiers take no time to bury him.

As they march, Samer, Rumple and the farmer, who is called Hamond, talk about their wives and children. Unlike the other recruits, they don't speculate on what lies ahead; they already have a pretty good idea, and to talk about it would surely bring bad luck.

On the eighth day, Rumple's knee gives out. Samer half-carries him. Hamond gathers some herbs and makes a poultice; by morning the swelling has gone down and Rumple can walk on his own again. After that, Hamond is assigned doctoring duties for the platoon.

On the tenth day they have entered the Highlands. The sky is streaked red and polluted with smoke. They join a larger platoon; they now number thirty. They make camp beside a river and wait.

Rumple writes letters on behalf of the other soldiers, and a runner carries them to the nearest village. It will be weeks or longer before the letters reach their destination; some of these men will be dead by the time their families read the letters. But Rumple believes the wives will take comfort from them, and years later the children will come to know their fathers through them, so he gives each letter his best penmanship, his most eloquent phrasing. His sales pitches to the nobles prove useful.

Rumple shares his rations with Samer. The large man needs more than he's given; Rumple needs less, so it's no sacrifice. Samer, in turn, keeps the men's courage up. He has a raucous sense of humor; besides, he's a veteran, having fought in King George III's war against King Gladwin I. When some of the other soldiers bully and belittle the cripple, Samer knocks a few heads and all harassment of Rumplestiltskin ends.

Hamond's trousers take a tear to the knee, so Rumple removes a needle and thread from his pouch and mends the trousers; after that, he's assigned tailoring responsibilities. To a small extent, it helps him to feel normal.

Sometimes at night, when the camp is sound asleep, Rumple thinks about running away. He knows he's never get far, not with his bad knee.

By the fifteenth day, they can hear the war coming at them. It's close enough to smell: burning wood, burning flesh, blood, fear. They are issued swords and spears. Rumple is forced to give up his walking stick; he leans on the spear instead. He learns to hold the heavy sword with his left hand. He can't lift it above his head.

On the sixteenth night of his capture, Rumple weeps into his blanket.

On the seventeenth day, another platoon joins them, and now it's time to join the fight.

They can't hear their captain's shouts over the shouts and screams of hundreds. Caught in the middle, Rumple can only stumble forward with the rest of his platoon; through the smoke, he can only see the backs of the soldiers in front of him.

The line of soldiers suddenly stops and swords are raised, flaying the air. A wall of ogres surges forward and the soldiers pick their battles, two or three of them attacking the same ogre. Rumple joins Hamond in battle with a female ogre. He's never struck a female before, but since she's attacking Hamond with as much force as two large human men could muster, it seems a fair fight. When the female swipes at him with her club and sends him flying backwards, Rumple ignores her womanliness and comes after her, swinging his sword with all his might. It takes both of them, but Hamond and Rumple manage to bring her down.

There is no time to congratulate each other; a second ogre takes her place. Rumple quickly tires and can't lift his sword any more, so he thrusts the spear repeatedly. Green fluid spurts out when Rumple manages to wedge the spear into the ogre's belly. Rumple struggles to extract his spear, and then something hits him from behind and he falls and everything goes black.

* * *

When he awakens, it's all over. Night has fallen; the troops have separated—whether it was the ogres or the humans who retreated, Rumple doesn't ask. Hamond has dragged him to safety and has tended his wounds. "Nothing broken," Hamond informs him. "As far as I can tell." He's apologizing, Rumple realizes, for his lack of medical knowledge, but after all, he is a farmer. . . or was until a month ago.

The captain rides through, counting. Word comes back: nine have died.

The sergeant rides through, barking orders. He reassigns Rumple's role: being small and slight, he's not much of a swordsman, so now Rumple is a scout. He is ordered to leave immediately, slipping through the woods around to the ogres' southern flank; he is to take a count of their numbers, observe the quality and quantity of their supplies and weapons, and report back by sunrise.

Rumple is issued a new spear, a canteen, and a flask of whiskey to help him brace against the cold. He sets out. It's a fool's mission, tramping through an unfamiliar forest in the dark, and it's a fool's war. Now that he's seen the size and strength of the enemy, he's convinced the only sane course of action for the humans is to negotiate a treaty.

Or better yet, pack up and leave. Let the ogres have the Flatlands.

Within an hour he's hopelessly lost. He sits down to rest and think. He's tempted to just stay here. If he waited long enough, the battle would be finished and he could go home, if he could find his way out of this forest. He leans his head against a poplar tree.

* * *

When he opens his eyes again, it's sunrise. He's failed in his mission. He stumbles to his feet and tries to figure out where he is. A ribbon of smoke rising from the west draws him forward. He dodges behind trees as he makes his approach. He hears crackling—logs burning in a campfire—he hears voices—grunts and guttural sounds, not human. And then he smells meat being roasted and his mouth waters: fresh meat, sweet and tender. He inches forward to see.

He hasn't totally failed in his mission, after all. He's found the ogres' camp. He estimates their numbers—130 or so, plus twenty-six wounded and nineteen dead. He studies their weapons; at least two swords, a club and three spears for every ogre. He studies their supplies: no medical supplies to speak of, and very little food; what's cooking on the fires right now seems to be about all they have. Could this be an opening for the humans? This platoon of ogres couldn't last a long siege.

He has the information he requires, so he slips back into the woods, but the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat and corn follows him. He takes one last, longing look back. Two ogre women are basting the roast. Rumple's stomach growls. And then the women step back and he can see the slab of meat rotating on the spit. . . and he drops to his knees and vomits.

Rumplestiltskin doesn't remember how he made it back to his platoon, or what he reported to the sergeant. He empties the flask of whiskey in a few gulps, then wraps himself in his blanket and shudders, and it's not just the weather that's chilled his bones.

Weeks pass, perhaps months; he doesn't know. His platoon fights this army of ogres over and over, but the humans slowly lose ground. They don't admit it, but they're retreating.

Rumple is sent out, over and over, to gather information. When he explains to the sergeant why the ogres carry no food with them, the sergeant is not surprised, but he orders Rumple not to tell anyone else. He doesn't have to say why: Rumple can imagine the mass desertion that would occur if the information he has became common knowledge.

* * *

The heavy snows of winter have exacerbated the humans' losses: some of their horses have died, and some of the soldiers have lost fingers or toes to frostbite. Their medical and food supplies are running low.

Spring comes in, and they are able to forage, but the pickings are small after the harsh winter. A flood destroys their camp. The humans relocate to higher ground, but it also means they're farther away from the vegetation they've been surviving on. They manage to catch mountain goats sometimes, and once a cougar; but mostly dinner consists of squirrels or birds. Battles break out sporadically; the sergeant dies and a corporal receives a field promotion. Hamond loses an arm to an ogre's sword; he dies a week later of infection. Summer, with its oppressive heat, sets in.

The captain decides it's time to withdraw, find a village to hole up in for a few days and "liberate" some clothing and supplies.

With relief, the platoon begins its backward march.

The ogres take heart—and decide to take hearts. They attack in full force. Weakened by lack of food, the humans can barely lift their swords. Samer falls when two ogres attack him simultaneously; Rumple drops his spear in horror as he watches them systematically hack at Samer's body, for he knows they aren't just slaying an enemy, they're butchering their lunch.

The sergeant rides up on his thrashing horse. He leans in, slapping Rumple in the face with his riding crop. "Get in there and fight!"

Numb in soul as well as body, Rumple can't move. He stares open-mouthed what's left of Samer. The sergeant slashes him again. "Fight, damn you!"

The horse rears and slips in the snow. The sergeant is thrown, the horse bucks free of him. An ogre advances, angling its sword in perfect position to slice off Rumple's head. The horse slides and its shoulder brushes against Rumple, knocking him down; the ogre's sword slices only air. Instinctively, the spinner grabs the saddle's flap to haul himself up, then seizes the bridle. The horse quiets for a moment, turning its head and looking Rumple in the eye.

For just a moment, under the horse's questioning gaze, Rumple doesn't feel afraid. He swings up into the saddle and gathers the reins.

The sergeant screams, "Come back here, you coward!"

Rumple kicks the horse into motion.

"Coward! Deserter! Stop the deserter!"

The horse runs.

When the horse finally stops, her sides lathered, her breath rasping, Rumple dismounts, collapsing when his bad leg gives out. The horse is too tired to wander away. Rumple rests a while, then ties the horse to a tree and unsaddles her. It's dark and once again, Rumplestiltskin is hopelessly lost.


	9. Chapter 9

Nine

**A/N. Here I go, with my theory about Rumple's wife. Care to climb out on this limb with me? It's an interesting view.**

* * *

The reports have reached Asurwen before Rumplestiltskin does. He realizes this as soon as he enters town: passersby stop and point and whisper. He lowers his head, his long hair and beard shielding him from the accusing stares. No doubt, Estrilda has been informed. He wonders if she and Bae are now pariahs too.

Rumple reins the horse to the right and slows him to walk. In these past weeks, the spinner has become a decent rider, though his bad knee buckles every time he dismounts. He will regret returning to travel by foot.

He wonders now if he will also regret returning.

He takes the horse to Samer's livery. As he's removing the saddle, Samer's wife joins him in the barn. She's dressed in widow's weeds. She brings him a ladle of water and a bucket for the horse. "I'm glad to see you're safe, Rumplestiltskin."

So she doesn't know about him, or she doesn't care. He doesn't know what to say. He accepts the ladle and drinks deeply. "Thank you, Aldusa."

She waits. He rubs the horse down as it drinks from the bucket, then turns it loose in a stall. She wrings her hands as he forks some hay into the manger.

He turns to face her. He can delay no longer. "Aldusa, Samer was a blessing to us—"

"It's true, then! He's killed." She wails and falls into his arms. He strokes her hair and lets her cry it out.

"You!"

He looks over Aldusa's shoulder to the barn's entrance, where Baldric the tavern keeper stands. It's only a broom he's holding, but Rumple has no desire to fight him, so when Baldric demands he release Aldusa, he does.

"No, he's not hurting me," Aldusa tries to say, but the tavern keeper shoves her aside.

"What are you doing back here?"

Rumple doesn't answer.

"Did you think we wouldn't know? Or did you think it wouldn't matter? That we'd welcome you back regardless of your cowardice? Our fine, brave men—including her husband—are dead because of you. The war is lost because of you, and other cowards like you."

"Baldric, that's not true," Aldusa interrupts. She reaches into her dress pocket and produces a handful of letters, all written in Rumple's handwriting, but in Samer's sentiments, with some of the coarser language cleaned up. "The war was lost before it began. Samer said as much, and Samer never lied."

"Woman, get out of the way," Balric pushes her aside and comes forward. He sets aside the broom for a pitchfork.

"Where were you when the army came through to take us, Baldric?" Rumple looks around for a weapon of his own.

"Get out of town, now. There's no place for you here."

Rumple takes a step backward. "I don't want to fight you—"

"That's the problem, isn't it? You don't want to fight anybody, you coward! You'd stand by and let those ogres tear good men apart. I bet you'd even let them have your wife if it meant saving your own skin." Baldric raises the pitchfork. "Well, it wouldn't be a first. Any number of men have had your wife."

Enraged, Rumple charges at the tavern keeper, barreling him over. The pitchfork comes down, scraping against Rumple's shoulder and drawing some blood, but the injury isn't serious. Rumple escapes, snatching up the discarded broom on his way out to use as a walking stick.

Apparently Baldric is satisfied he's made his point, because he doesn't follow. Rumple makes his way back to his hut, only to find it deserted and completely empty. From the state of things, he suspects looters rather than Estrilda. Bewildered, he stands in the middle of the hut and calls, "Estrilda? Bae?"

He does find his old walking stick, however, and he takes it up. Exhausted, he starts on the four-mile journey to Osbert's farm. He makes it as far as Osbert's cornfield before he collapses.

* * *

A crow awakens him.

He's flat on his back, one arm thrown over his face protectively. He allows himself to lie there a while, gathering his energies and his thoughts—and then he remembers he's only a half-mile or so to Bae, so he struggles to his feet. After collecting his walking stick he starts out again.

Clotild is fetching water from the well. She drops the bucket as he calls to her. "Rumplestiltskin!" She runs to him, hugs him, then looks him over. "Come in, come in, let's get some food into you, and some clean clothes."

Her kindness brings tears to his eyes. He follows her into the house, gladly accepting her ministrations, but before he surrenders himself to her hands, he has to know. "Where is Bae? Estrilda?"

She doesn't answer. She sits him down in the kitchen and brings him a basin of water and a towel to wash as she puts a kettle on. "I have lamb stew on the stove. There's bread baking in the oven," she says. "It will be done soon. There's no butter, but I have strawberry preserves." She busies herself, setting out dishes, filling a bowl with stew.

It's all too much for him: the spices from the stew, the warmth from the fire, the comforting smell of baking bread. He drops his head into his hands.

She stops her fussing and comes to him. "What's wrong, Rumplestiltskin?"

"A little dizzy," he says, but that's only partially true; he wants to cry.

"Let's get some food into you," she insists, pushing the bowl towards him and pressing a spoon into his hand.

As she touches him, he shivers. "You're cold," she clicks her tongue. She brings him a cloak, which he recognizes as Saer's, and then he really does have to cry.

Another cry echoes his, a high-pitched, insistent wail. Clotild murmurs, "Baelfire," and hurries from the kitchen.

That breaks him. Rumplestiltskin is openly sobbing when Clotild returns, a now-quieted toddler in her arms. The baby twists in her grasp to stare at the newcomer; Rumple's sobbing scares him, and he buries his face in his grandmother's shoulder.

Understanding, Rumplestiltskin collects himself. He controls his breathing, washes his face and gulps some tea, then he offers the baby a shaky smile.

"Baelfire," Clotild says softly, "this is your papa."

But the baby refuses to look.

"Give him a moment," Clotild urges. She sits down at the table across from Rumple. She begins to talk in a soothing voice about mundane things: the weather, the crops, some new beverage called coffee that a traveler has introduced to town. "Eat, eat," she begs, so Rumple does, and as he relaxes the baby relaxes, and soon the boy is peeping at him.

Clotild sniffs the air and stands. "The bread is ready. Bae, will you sit in your father's lap while I take the bread out?"

Bae appears to have no objections to this plan, so Clotild deposits the baby with Rumple and goes to her oven.

Rumple takes a deep breath and releases it. The anticipation of this moment has kept him alive. "Bae." Baelfire, the signal fire that guides a lost father home.

The boy stares up at him with those large, bold eyes that Rumple remembers. "Hello, Bae. I was gone a long time, wasn't I? But I came home and I won't leave again."

Baelfire pats his father's beard and giggles.

"Does he—" and then Rumple realizes just how long he's been gone. "Does he walk yet?"

"Yes." Clotild laughs and waves at the cupboards, which have been tied shut, and the fireplace, which is blocked off with an iron screen. "We try to keep him out of the kitchen except at meal time. And he says a few words like 'mama' and 'dada' but he doesn't know what they mean yet." She stops herself. "Oh, I didn't mean to—it's just that at his age, all babies imitate those words and they don't know what they mean."

"How. . ." Rumple has to clear this throat. "How old is he?"

Clotild looks at him with sympathy. "Harvest began last week."

In two weeks Bae will be one year old. Rumplestiltskin has missed a year of his son's life. "I won't miss another," he whispers, hugging the boy, who tugs at his father's hair. Rumple gathers his courage. "And Estrilda?"

Clotild busies herself again, slicing the bread, cutting one of the slices into halves. "Osbert's out at Walter's farm, bringing in the crops. They will move on to Umphrey's next, and then here."

"And Estrilda?"

Clotild puts a spoonful of jam on a half-slice of bread and presents it to Bae, who shoves the treat into his mouth. In two bites it's gone. She chuckles, "He has such an appetite."

She stirs the stew and adds another log to the fire before she seats herself again. "Rumplestiltskin, Osbert and I have talked this over, and we want you to stay here, make this your home. You and Bae."

He understands now. "So. . . she's gone."

Clotild begins to wipe up bread crumbs. "At the end of spring."

"I'll find her."

She looks at him firmly. "Don't."

"I don't understand."

"It's what she wants."

"To leave me?" The prospect doesn't surprise him. Then he realizes who else she has left. "To leave Bae?"

"And her father and me." Clotild rubs her hands on her apron over and over. "Let her go, Rumplestiltskin. It's her choice."

"Why? What did she say? What did she do?"

"She can't be at peace here. Let her go. Bae needs you now. Don't go chasing after someone you will never find; give your son the life he deserves."

Rumple stares at the boy's curly head. "He needs his mother."

"Not Estrilda. No. She can never be a mother to him."

"What are you saying? Did she hurt him?"

"No." Clotild can't meet his eyes. "Never. But she can't love him. She can't love anyone. It's not anything you did; she's been like this since she was small. I'm sorry, Rumplestiltskin. We'd hoped that having a home of her own would help her. She seemed. . . better. But after you left—"

"After I was forced to leave."

"Yes, after you were forced to leave, we brought her here, to take care of her and Bae, and we saw that she was still unsettled. Her dreams got worse. She took care of Bae, but she didn't love him. The only thing that seemed to interest her was her books."

"Show me." Rumplestiltskin rises and sets the baby on his hip. It feels completely natural; he carried his baby sister Helewise this way, when he was a child living on pig farm.

She takes him to the bedroom that was once Estrilda's, now Bae's. She opens a trunk at the foot of the bed. Under the dresses he recognizes, she uncovers a stack of books. He passes the baby to Clotild; the baby protests, but soon settles against his grandmother's shoulder, still staring at his father. Rumple withdraws one of the books, then another, then another.

Every one of them is about magic.

Clotild sets the baby down on the bed and allows him to play with the pillows. "On the night of the first full moon of summer, Estrilda said goodbye to us—we thought she said 'goodnight' but we realized later it was 'goodbye.' She put the baby down in his crib and she went out for walk. We thought she'd gone just to enjoy the warm night. It was such a beautiful night, after an awful winter. The wildflowers were in bloom, fireflies danced, the sky was full of stars; Osbert and I went out to enjoy it too. She stood at the edge of the forest, with the wind rumpling her dress, her hair loose and wild, and she closed her eyes. She turned her face to the sky. The moonlight fell on her face. She looked so content that we didn't disturb her.

"And then she called out, 'Morning Star, I beseech thee.'"

"'Morning Star'? Surely you misheard. There is a 'Blue Star,' if the legends are true, but whoever heard of a 'Morning Star'? Especially one that comes out at night."

"We wondered too, until we read that book." Clotild points to _Origins of Magic_. Rumplestiltskin picks up the book; he will scrutinize it later, as his only clue to understanding his wife. Clotild continues, "She said it three times: 'Morning Star, I beseech thee.' And a gold star, the likes of which we have never seen before, appeared in the sky west of the moon. She reached out her hand to it, as if she could grab it, and she said something we couldn't understand. Three times she said it, and each time the star grew bigger and brighter, and the third time beams flared out from the star and surrounded her, and she glowed with gold light. We were afraid for her, and Osbert ran to her, but before he could reach her, the gold light vanished and so did she."

"Vanished?" He can't grasp it all. It's a tale of a mind made ill by grief, he concludes; Clotild in her longing for her runaway daughter has imagined this. That's the only thing that makes sense.

"Don't try to find her, Rumplestiltskin. Even if you could. . . whatever she did, it can't be good." She lifts the baby again and kisses his fat little cheek. "_This_ is good. Raising your son, loving him, helping him to become the man he should be."

Rumplestiltskin looks at the book in his hands, then at his son. He doesn't know what's right or good. What he does know is how he feels.

He would die for his wife, because it's his duty to her.

But he would live for his son, because he loves him.

* * *

**A/N. You may have noticed that Rumple's forgotten something he learned about in chapter 6; that will soon be corrected. By the way, Baldric's a jerk and I wouldn't believe a word he says. Just in case you were wondering. Clotild, on the other hand. . . .**


	10. Chapter 10

Ten

**A/N. I don't normally do hurt/comfort, but I need to bring Rumple down to the physical condition he's in at the time of "Desperate Souls," so here we go. And if you were wondering, Estrilda will come back strong in another two chapters or so, and Belle's on her way. . . .**

* * *

He dreams he's drowning in a flood of green blood.

He dreams Estrilda serves him dinner and it's Samer's head on a plate.

He dreams he's spinning and the spinning is keeping him sane, so he spins faster and faster because sanity is trying to run away from him.

He dreams Bae is crying.

He dreams a soft voice calls his name and a cool hand strokes his forehead.

He opens his eyes. It's hard to focus and he can't move and he's on fire. He closes his eyes again and he's cold as winter. He can't stop shaking.

A soft voice calls his name. A strong arm lifts him, holds him up as other hands wash him with cool, healing water. A cup is pressed to his lips and the voice asks him to drink, so he does. When he sleeps again, he doesn't dream.

His body forces a deep, cleansing sigh from his lungs. He lifts a hand to his face and rubs his eyes, then opens them a little at a time. He's looking at a poplar tree. He blinks and then he realizes he's looking through a window at a poplar tree. It's day, he's in a bed, covered with a quilt. He sighs again, pulling life in.

Bae _is_ crying. He tries to sit up. The crying comes closer and he tries harder, but he can't lift his weight. He can't even lift the damn quilt. Clotild, with Bae is her arms, comes into view. She's smiling but Bae is still crying until she sets him down on the bed and he crawls to Rumple and pats his beard. Satisfied, Bae lays his head on Rumple's chest and falls asleep, sucking his thumb.

* * *

When Rumple awakens again, Bae is gone but Clotild is still there. She's wearing a different dress and she's urging him to drink. He manages to prop himself up this time. He takes the cup, his hand unsteady, and he drinks the warm broth, making a bit of a mess when his hand shakes. He tries to apologize but his voice won't work. He runs his hand over his mouth and discovers his beard is gone. He smiles and Clotild smiles and he sleeps again.

* * *

The next time he awakens, Osbert is there. He's sunburnt and sweaty and smells of hay. He says something about the harvest; he seems pleased. He urges Rumple to take more broth and a bit of bread. He apologizes for the lack of butter; it's scarce these days because of the war.

* * *

A day or two or three later, Bae is brought in again and is permitted to play on his father's bed. Clotild and Osbert both come; Osbert carries a wooden duck with large blue eyes and a yellow beak, while Clotild carries a small cake. They sing a song together and clap their hands and Bae giggles and claps in imitation. Osbert gives Bae the duck; Bae waves it about, then decides his father needs it more than he does, so he tucks the duck into the crook of Rumple's arm. He surveys his handiwork and claps his hands when Rumple smiles.

Eventually, Rumple is able to sit up. His head's still fuzzy but he can follow a conversation, adding a few words of his own. He learns that harvest and its festival have come and gone (no mage this time), army recruiters have come and gone, Aldusa has come and gone, asking about the horse. He eats some stew.

Gradually, he comes back to himself: he's able to bathe and shave and dress himself; he can take short walks about the house, leaning on his walking stick; he can sit in the sun while Bae plays at his feet. He discovers that something has happened to his bad leg while he slept; it's weaker than before.

He begins to help out around the farm and most of his body grows stronger, but the leg stays weak. He compensates with a sturdier walking stick. He's no farmer but now that the harvest's done, Osbert has time to teach him.

Aldusa comes back to ask about the horse. She seems relieved to find him moving about. "The mare's not mine to sell," he informs her. "But until the army claims her, why don't you rent her out?" Aldusa accepts this proposal and says she'll split the profits with him. He doesn't mention it, but he's pleased: it will be his only income.

* * *

Osbert and Clotild go into town to buy supplies for the winter. They're gone all day, but Bae seems to understand his father's limitations and reins himself in. He takes a nap when requested and doesn't try to climb over the gate blocking his path to the kitchen.

When Osbert and Clotild return, they are giggling like children. They call Rumple out to the tack room in the barn, where they reveal one of their purchases. "It's an investment," Osbert says; "so we'll have some income during the winter."

It's a Great Wheel. Rumple sets both hands upon it. It's his first gift.

It takes some adjustment: unlike the Saxony he's used all his life, the Great Wheel has no treadle; the spinner walks back and forth, wrapping the yarn around the spindle. He worries that his bad leg will not hold up under the activity, but once he begins to spin, he forgets about his knee.

He makes a workshop of the tack room, with a play corner for Bae; the harness and plow are relocated to an empty stall. With the wool Osbert has brought him, he sets to work, rebuilding his business, rebuilding his life.

When the winter comes the barn is too cold for Bae, so the spinning wheel moves indoors, near the fireplace.

The Great Wheel causes him to change his old ways, but so does Bae. Rumple no longer fades into the wheel; he must keep one ear cocked and one eye sharp for the athletic toddler. He talks as he spins now, telling Bae stories; Bae tells him stories back in a language he's never able to translate.

* * *

Then it's time to go to market. Rumple needs to sell the yarn he's produced and buy more wool. He doesn't expect the same success he had before: as the war drags on, there's less money to spend.

What he doesn't expect, but what happens, is that no one will buy from him. He's been blacklisted.

* * *

He tries again, speaking to his former customers in private; a few agree to buy from him on the sly, but most turn their backs. Those who buy from him privately will not speak to him publicly. Each new death list from the battlefront reminds the villagers that Rumplestiltskin is still alive; each death is laid at his doorstep.

He begins to wonder if the villagers are right.

When he is dragged into an alley behind the tavern and beaten, he gives up.

* * *

Spring comes and Bae is thriving. He speaks more than 50 words—sometimes all at once, though he hasn't formed sentences yet.

Rumple has stopped spinning. He's a farmer now, though not much of one. He can't walk behind a plow or chop weeds. He learns to mend harness and repair broken blades, but he still wears out quickly. And he still dreams of ogres.

* * *

"I can't stay," he tells Osbert and Clotild.

He hears her crying that night, but in the morning she helps him pack Bae's things.

He takes back the horse from Aldusa. He suggests Osbert sell the Great Wheel, but the older man won't hear of it. "It will be here waiting for you when you come back." Clotild kisses the baby repeatedly as Rumple swings into the saddle, then she hands Bae up. Rumple wraps a length of rope around his waist and Bae's, lest the toddler get rambunctious and fall. Clotild covers her mouth and runs into the house.

Osbert clears his throat. "You sure you got enough water?"

"Yes."

"Map? You got the map?"

"Yes."

"And the knife?"

"Yes."

"Well," Osbert pets the horse awkwardly, then stands back. "All right then."

"Osbert, thank you."

The farmer shrugs. "What? You're family."

* * *

He leaves the Flatlands for the Hill Country, a village called Tardolith, three weeks' ride away from Asurwen, two months' ride away from the war. . . until the battlefront moves.

He learns another occupation: sharecropping. He's given a hut on a few acres of land belonging to a duke, and he raises sheep for his landlord. He enjoys the work; he can't chase after the lambs the way he should, but he purchases a trained dog to take care of that. It costs him an entire season's profits, but the dog earns back his keep every day.

No one here knows Rumplestiltskin's name. No one talks about the war; it hasn't touched them yet.

Rumple learns to throw his knife. He gets plenty of practice as he and the dog defend the sheep from wolves.

Their hut has a rope bed, which becomes Bae's; Rumple sleeps on a mat. In the evenings he makes repairs to the hut or reads Bae to sleep. At first Bae asks for "mam-ma" and "pap-pa-pa"; Rumple tells him the truth: they are far away but they think of him always. Gradually Bae stops asking. He grows strong, chasing after the sheep, riding the bellwether's back, napping with his head on the dog's belly.

Rumple is content, but at night when Bae is asleep, he sits by the fire and rubs his hands, longing for the wheel. Sometimes he wonders about Estrilda, but he finds he doesn't long for her. He wonders what he should tell Bae when the boy is old enough to compare his family to other children's.

As winter approaches, Rumple makes a hard decision: he sells the horse. Without the horse, running away will be difficult, but the horse has no work here and has become restless. So he takes her to market, boasts of her strength and docility, shows off her feet and teeth. Half the profits he hides in jar in a hole under his sleeping mat. With the other half he buys a Saxony wheel.

And then he no longer dreams of ogres.

* * *

Young men start to vanish from the village. Even Bae notices this as they take their wool and yarn to market. Then the young women vanish.

It becomes more difficult to make a sale. His landlord, needing money for taxes, sells of some of the land upon which Rumple has been living.

On the horizon, a streak of red appears. And then old men vanish. When army recruiters ride through, Rumple, on the outskirts of the duchy, is bypassed, for which he thanks the gods every day.

* * *

He doesn't understand Bae. The boy fears nothing: as a toddler he crawls in and out of the herd, though the bellwether nips at him; he crawls under the horse's belly, though she sometimes bumps him with her feet. When he is five, Rumple catches him brandishing a stick and chasing after a fox. At eight, Bae snatches up Rumple's knife and throws it at a wolf, striking the animal in the flank. They lose a good knife, but not a sheep.

And it's the stories. When at market Rumple buys books, Bae insists on _Beowulf_ and _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_; as Rumple makes his deals, Bae wanders off—not to the river, where the other children play, but to the general store, where old men smoke pipes and tell war stories.

Rumple argues and pleads and threatens to spank, but Bae keeps wandering off to these old men. Rumple tries to teach him to spin, but Bae won't sit still at the wheel; he grabs the spindle and pretends it's a sword. When Bae turns ten, he talks of becoming a general in the King's army. Rumple can't disavow him of this notion.

Is this his punishment, Rumple wonders, for having deserted?

* * *

The band of red in the sky comes closer. Recruiters take the teenagers.

As he minds the sheep, Bae carves spears and arrows.

The recruiters come for Morraine.

And then Rumple kills, and when the recruiters come for Bae, Rumple is awaiting. He's not afraid of them or anything else, never will be afraid again: he's made a deal with the Dark One.

He _is_ the Dark One now. And it's absolutely delicious.

His first act of magic is to kill again.


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven

But his second act of magic is so magnificent, so bold that for the first time ever, the name "Rumplestiltskin" and the word "hero" are linked. With Bae watching from a safe distance, Rumplestiltskin transports himself into the midst of battle. Clubs thrown at him suddenly stop in mid-air, reverse direction and strike the thrower; swords slashed at him turn into doves and fly away. Ogres and men alike lay down their weapons and back away.

Rumple laughs, but what comes out is not his laugh; it's a high-pitched giggle, a madman's giggle. And his voice when he shouts is not his voice. "This war is over, now and forever. Go home to your families."

His hands vibrate. Deep in his brain he hears an ancient voice directing him, so he obeys: he raises his hands for all to see. They are glowing with a shuddering blue light. He thinks a thought, utters a command, and the light from his hands flares out. The weapons, thousands of them, rise into the air and turn into doves and fly away.

Then Rumplestiltskin points a finger at the biggest ogre. He rises into the air ten feet and dangles there before Rumple lowers his finger and he falls. The ogre army backs away.

Rumple calls out again, "Children of Tardolith, come to me. You're going home." Bae's friend Morraine is the first to come; the rest follow. "Don't be afraid," Rumple instructs them, but how could they not be, after what they've just seen, with what they are seeing: a gold-skinned man whose hands glow and whose eyes are as large and gold as a pirate's bullion? When Rumple smiles at them, they see his rotted teeth and shrink back. But he brings Bae into the fold, and with a hand on his son's shoulder, the new Dark One flicks a wrist and transports the children home.

The village celebrates. The twenty-year-long war is over with a flick of a wrist. Rumplestiltskin walks through the marketplace, Bae under his arm, and the people bow to him. . . but they also back away.

* * *

He conjures a mirror. All right, so he's. . . different. But can't they see that along with the hideous teeth and skin, he's no longer a cripple? He can walk from here to Asurwen if he wants to without breaking a sweat—though why bother, when he can transport himself. He can dance a waltz at any ball he might be invited to. He can run—but he never will again. And he's strong, so so strong, he can lift a wagon with one hand and change its wheel with the other. Although, why dirty his hands. The strength surges throughout his entire body.

With a wave of his hand, Rumple provides. Rumple gives the duke's hut and the duke's sheep to another poor soul and creates a tight, spacious cottage for himself. Exotic foods, fine clothes, wine, toys, books, carpets, beds appear and disappear and reappear in other forms, in response to Rumple's moods. Rumple has never had so much fun in his life.

Except none of it makes Bae smile. He stands back from his father, watching warily.

And when Rumple exerts his power over the villagers who taunted him in the past, Bae stands in horror. When Rumple uses his magic to punish all who demonstrate disrespect for the new Dark One, Bae begs him to stop.

Rumple still doesn't understand his son. Ah well, he'll come around, the voice in the back of Rumple's brain says, and Rumple quits worrying.

* * *

At night, while Bae sleeps fitfully in his soft new bed, Rumple sits down at his old wheel. He stares at it, speculating. He never need spin again; a wave of his hand will produce anything he desires. Rumple can retire. With a flick of his wrist he banishes the wheel.

With nothing else to do, he settles into the cushioned wingback chair he's conjured and he. . .just. . . sits.

The next morning, he brings back the Saxony, just for something to do.

* * *

When it's over, he doesn't remember exactly how it happened. One minute he was excusing the cart driver's accidental injury of Bae—after all, it was only a scrape; Bae had suffered much worse just playing with the sheep. But then the voice in his brain reminded him: any injury to Bae was an insult to Rumplestiltskin, a flagrant disregard for Rumple's powers. To overlook such an insult, right there in public, would be an invitation to further disrespect, and Rumplestiltskin would never, ever be humiliated again. And then in the snap of his fingers it was over.

Ah well.

As he thought of it later, Rumple could see both sides of the argument. What he couldn't see was why Bae had gotten so upset over it. It was as if Bae thought Rumple might someday do the same to him. The prospect makes Rumple shiver. He retreats to his wheel and loses himself in the spinning.

* * *

Nothing scares Bae, except his own father.

Nothing scares Rumplestiltskin, who can crush a man-turned-snail beneath his shoe—nothing except Bae.

So when Bae demands a deal, Rumple acquiesces.

And then Rumple finds that even with the Dark One's powers, when it comes right down to it, he's still a coward. The Dark One's cruel laugh echoes in his ears as he releases Bae's hand and his son slides into the tornado.

* * *

It's all that damn self-righteous Blue Star's fault. He shouts and slashes at her, but she dances away from him, turning up her nose at his pain, celebrating in his loss. She hates him—perhaps he deserves it, for all the sins of all the Dark Ones that have ever been are now laid on his doorstep. But how can she hate Bae, who has done no wrong, who trusted her? How can she send him to a place he's unprepared for, without a guardian and without his loving father?

But he'll have the final victory, because he will dare anything. There's no right or wrong except a child's right to be with his father and a father's right to protect his child. Nothing else matters. Unless it's also showing that damn flapping fairy a thing or two.

* * *

He won't stay in this damn village, not without his son. They're already looking at him strangely, talking about him behind their hands. No, he's not paranoid: his hearing is now so acute he can hear a whisper from a mile away. He's beginning to hear their hearts beating. That makes him shudder.

Some of them come to him on the sly, begging his favor. He sends them away with a snort.

There's no one here who can teach him what he needs to know. The Dark One gives him information in dribs and drabs, when it suits the evil one, but it's not enough for Rumple, whose hands shake with raw power and whose still-human heart cries for his lost son. The Dark One relents: there's a castle in the western mountains; it belonged to the first Dark One and every Dark One since. Now it's his.

Rumple waves his hand and goes there. He brings everything that was Bae's; someday the boy will want those things again.

The castle is as cold and empty as its name. He snaps his fingers and fills one of the rooms with Bae's belongings; he snaps again and candles blaze, a fire appears in the fireplace, a Great Wheel appears before the fireplace. Now he's home.

He discovers the library: more than a thousand books, many about magic; they will teach him how to be the Dark One. He discovers a laboratory, filled with vials and bottles of glowing powders and herbs and liquids. These will teach him how to find Bae. It will take lifetimes, but he doesn't mind: he's almost immortal. He will learn everything, he will try everything, until Bae comes home—or until he finds a path to where Bae is.

So he studies, and what he can't learn on his own, he learns from other mages, trading objects or information or favors. Whatever they desire, he will obtain, and he will flatter and flirt and bow to curry their favor. They are no different, deep down, than the nobles' servants he once sold thread to.

It's these deals that lead him to making deals with the humans. He would just as soon stay away from them; he never did belong with them anyhow. He realizes some parts of his body and mind are still human, and for Bae's sake he will try to hold onto them, but with each year he grows more and more imp, and that's for Bae's sake too.

The imp knows that every act of magic creates an imbalance in the universe. He doesn't quite understand why: maybe it's just the way the Source set things up. Rumple doesn't believe in "good" or "bad" magic, no matter what the fairies claim; it's all just magic, and all of it upsets the balance. To correct the balance, then, for everything given, something has to be taken—and he's not willing that it be taken from him. That's why he insists upon deals: he will give nothing without payment. Of course, most people—mage or human, it doesn't matter—balk when it's time to collect; some even try to cheat him. He can't allow that to happen. As a result, he gains a bad reputation, but the requests for deals keep coming anyway. People never learn.

He learns about the Blue Star and the Morning Star, the immortal beings created by the Source; humans and fairies justify their choices by placing the blame on these beings. They oversimplify, calling the Blue Star "good" and the Morning Star "evil." The first Dark One was a creation of the Morning Star, ergo all Dark Ones are evil. But to Rumple's way of thinking, it's the fairies who are evil because they give their magic away at whim, at no cost—the price must then be exacted later, sometimes from an innocent party. It's much more honest, Rumple thinks, to make the recipient of the magic pay up front. So he bargains, and he warns, but seldom does anyone refuse his offers. Sometimes he returns to the Dark Castle utterly frustrated: how can they be so dense? He won't lie, but sometimes in his anger he misleads them into accepting prices they don't understand, just as his predecessor misled him.

Decades pass, thousands of deals, but people never change.

Part of his success comes from his mystique: he remains apart from them, accessible for deals, but otherwise distant. He doesn't need them, just their information or their possessions. The mystique works well; the less they see of him, the more they hold him in awe and fear. They think he's crazy, but they also think he can do anything.

He's more imp than human now, but sometimes-especially when the deal involves breaking up a family-the human in him tells him he should be ashamed. He takes a shot of whiskey at those times. Mostly, though, the human in him tells him he's lonely, and then he goes out in answer to the pleas for his magic and makes deals he doesn't desire, just so he's not alone for those few minutes.

Other times, he fights the urge for human contact by losing himself in his spinning. The wheel is truly magic now; while he's spinning, he forgets Saer, Estrilda, Clotild and Osbert, Samer, even Bae. Even Rumplestiltskin.

* * *

**A/N. For a much better examination of this theory of balance as an explanation of why Rumple charges for his magic-and why the fairies should too-see the wonderful story "Rumlcimprcamr" by Evangeline-Sibeliah on this site. Even if you don't want the explanation, read the story! It's both an action-packed romance and an insightful character study of both the imp and the human Rumple.**


	12. Chapter 12

Twelve

Rumple's raging. He's smashing his furniture, using his magic to throw it against the castle walls; when that doesn't calm him, he flies to the topmost turret, raises beds, couches, chairs and even his dining table over his head—he can do it; he's strong enough now—and tosses them over the edge, watching them fall straight down to the rocks below, then overturn, tumble down the mountain, shatter, splinter, cushions flying, until the fragments are so far away he can't see them any more. This does not satisfy him either, so he starts punching holes in the castle's stone walls.

Later, he will reflect on his actions. The imp will laugh long and loud that he has the strength and power to carry out such destruction; why, if he chose, he could overthrow kingdoms. He could rule all of Fairytale Land without breaking a sweat!

But the human in him will recoil. Just a few months ago, when he was a powerless spinner, the thought of intentionally damaging anything would have repulsed him: his possessions were too few and had cost him too dearly to be mistreated. Besides, such conduct was not becoming a man, especially not a father whose young son looked to him as a guide. Now, of course, he can destroy to his heart's content and with a snap of the fingers put everything back together, unblemished. None of his books address the personality changes that come with magic. Maybe there should be a manual.

Especially if the mage might be tempted to turn his wrath upon living things, like a cart-pulling donkey. . . or a disobedient child. After reflection, Rumple will decide he needs to rein in this particular impulse.

And the cause of Rumple's rage? Well, upon due reflection, his own negligence.

Two days ago, he'd been moping about in Bae's room, as he sometimes did when he felt particularly human and lonely; he'd unfolded and folded Bae's clothes, setting them neatly in an armoire, wondering, since it's only been two seasons since Bae's disappearance, would these clothes still fit? Not that it would matter; Rumple could replace them—or for those certain items that Bae favored, Rumple could, with a wave of his hand, make them bigger. He would be delighted to do this, or to buy Bae a new wardrobe, one that would make a prince green with envy. He'd _counted_ on replacing those clothes, and those toys, and those books—marking each stage in Bae's physical and intellectual growth, providing the tools that Bae needed to grow.

And keeping some of these things as treasured keepsakes, to be passed along perhaps to grandchildren.

So Rumple was already in a foul mood, pitying himself, when he came upon the blue-eyed wooden duck, the one Osbert had made for Bae's first birthday.

That damn duck made him remember Osbert and Clotild, loving grandparents who had seen Bae only once in the past ten years, because neither they nor Rumple could afford the long trip. There had been letters, few and far between, though, because postal delivery was irregular and undependable and highly expensive. Each year, Rumple had promised: someday. . . .

And then, when he had the chance—when he could have transported Bae back to Asurwen with a wave of his hand—he'd been too preoccupied to think of it. Between learning how to control his powers—if not his temper—and showing off for the neighbors, and trying to pacify Bae, he hadn't given a thought to Osbert and Clotild.

He owed those sweet people. Now that they would never see Bae again, he owed them an explanation. It would be the most difficult apology of his life, but he screwed his courage to the sticking place and traveled to Asurwen—with a snap of his fingers, of course. And that was his first mistake: he didn't warn them.

He materialized in the barn—he just couldn't face Clotild first. When he discovered his spinning wheel still in the tack room, he knew he'd be forgiven for his long absence, though he couldn't be sure they'd forgive him about Bae.

Osbert wasn't in the barn, so Rumple transported himself to the cornfield. The corn was doing well this year, its stalks as tall as he was—and just to insure that the crops would be protected from vermin and weather, he cast a simple spell. Then he called out. "Osbert? It's me, Rumplestiltskin!"

The old man's voice responded immediately. "Rumplestiltskin? My boy! My boy!" The cornstalks shook as rapid footsteps approached. "You've come home. Is Bae with you?"

Rumple could hear the tears of joy in Osbert's voice. He didn't know how to answer. "No, I—uh—it's just me—"

And then Rumple could see a flash of blue cloth and the last row of cornstalks parted. The farmer burst forward, weeping without embarrassment, his arms outstretched. In that moment, Rumple would have gladly traded every power he possessed if only he could have delivered Bae. "Rum—"

But Osbert stopped short. He sucked in a breath, shook his head slowly. "No, no, no," he said over and over; he backed away, bumping into corn. "Get away, devil, there's nothing for you here. Get away!"

"No, Osbert, it's me, Rumplestiltskin—please, Osbert, don't—"

Osbert pulled a cornstalk from the ground and wielded it like a club. "Leave this farm! Leave our souls alone! We'll have no truck with you!"

"Can't you see it's me?" Rumple pleaded, walking forward. "Can't you hear it's me?"

Osbert kept backing away and shaking his head.

"The Great Wheel," Rumple grasped for common memories with which Osbert can identify him. Then he remembered, they didn't know one spinning wheel from another; that's why they'd bought a lame man a Great Wheel. "The spinning wheel you gave me. Remember? The duck you carved for Bae. You—you and Clotild sang a birthday song and gave him that duck on his first birthday. Remember? Now do you know it's me?"

Osbert denied him. "You're a devil; you can see into my mind. But you won't take my soul!"

Rumplestiltskin hated to cast a spell on his own father-in-law, but he could see no other solution. As subtly as he could, he ordered the magic to cloud Osbert's vision, make him see the Rumplestiltskin he remembered. In an instant the old man had stopped retreating and was rubbing the back of his neck as though he had a headache. "Rumplestiltskin?" he asked uncertainly. "What's happening?"

"It's me, Osbert; it's me." Rumple extended a hand and with a completely bewildered look, the farmer accepted the handshake. "Can we go into the barn to talk?" Rumple led the way; the farmer followed blindly.

Inside the barn, Rumple pulled up two bales of hay and invited Osbert to sit. The old man obeyed, but he trembled uncontrollably.

Again, Rumple said softly, "It's me, Osbert. Not a devil. Just me." Rumple brought—by walking, not by conjuring—a ladle of cool water and urged him to drink. As the farmer drank, Rumple sat down across from him. "Better?"

Osbert nodded. "I'm sorry, my boy, I don't know what came over me. Ever since the Morning Star took Estrilda, I see devils in every haystack. Crack-brained, I guess."

"You're not crack-brained. There are devils, devils and fairies and imps and witches. I am not a devil, Osbert. I am still Rumplestiltskin, the husband of your daughter, the father of your grandson. But I _am_ changed. Osbert, I must tell you something I would give anything not to have to tell you." And slowly, allowing Osbert time to understand the news and, perhaps, accept it, he explained what he had done on the night before Bae's birthday. . . and what that action had done to him and Bae.

"He. . . then. . . he is gone? He cannot come back?"

"He is gone. I don't think he can come back. He is in a land where magic doesn't exist, so no magic could bring him back. But I'm searching, Osbert, and I will search all the rest of my days, to find a way to go where he has gone. Whatever it takes, I will find him and go to him—and be the father I should have been."

"You were a good father, my lad."

"Not after the magic," Rumple admitted.

"If you find him. . . and you go there. . . can you never come back?"

"No."

"But you must go," Osbert decided. "He's still too young to be alone. And to be in a foreign place, with no protector!" He shakes his head repeatedly. "With no protector."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't bring him back to see you. I'm sorry I became someone my son couldn't trust. I'm sorry I robbed you of him, and he of you. If I had known then that I would have to pay such a dear price to buy this magic, I would never had made the bargain."

A door banged and Clotild's voice called out for her husband, informing him dinner was ready.

Osbert set a hand on Rumple's knee. "You must leave now, lad, before she comes. Don't let her know any of this. It would kill her." Osbert stood and called back to his wife, telling her he would come in a moment. "After Estrilda, to lose you and Bae too to magic; she couldn't withstand it. You must go and search for your son, and don't come back here."

"I'm sorry," Rumple repeated. "I'm sorry."

Osbert shook his head. "Leave now. And son, I'm sorry too."

And that's why Rumple, the ungrateful bastard, rages. There's no one to see, anyway. Never will be again.


	13. Chapter 13

Thirteen

He's not in the market for a deal right now, but after his seventh failed attempt to decipher a formula for a youth potion—somebody should have taught those ancient Dark Ones how to spell—he figures he might as well take a break, so he tunes his hearing to accept the summons that's been wafting through the air all day. As soon as he does, his scalp prickles: he's heard that voice before.

Something deep down tells him not to go. The Dark One sneers at that: you're the most powerful mage on the planet. Nothing should scare you. The Dark One knows just which nerve to tweak: Rumple answers the summons.

The magic takes him to a dungeon. He hovers unseen as he assesses the situation.

There's a woman, thirtyish, bent over in tears; she's sitting on a stool parked beside a Great Wheel. At her feet is a basket of straw. She keeps trying to fashion a leader out of a single strand of straw, which, of course, keeps breaking.

Rumple taps his foot impatiently. Well, right off the bat, he could tell her at least two things she's doing wrong. . . .

She calls his name again. "Rumplestiltskin, help me! Help me or I die!"

If he had a penny for every time he's heard that—oh wait, he does.

"_You_ can do this! No other being could, but you could, O Great Dark One!"

Flattery will get you nowhere, sister. But then she says the words the Dark One can't resist, and that nasty being starts rattling Rumple's brain-cage.

"I'll give you anything if you'll only help me!"

So he materializes behind her, still wondering about the familiarity of her voice. He steps forward to tap her on the shoulder. He notices her scent, like strawberries; he notices her midnight-black hair, twisted in a bun and secured with a silver comb; he notices her small hands and narrow shoulders—

The silver comb.

He pops around to her front. His mouth drops open as she raises her tear-stained face from her hands.

"Rumplestiltskin!" "Estrilda!" They exclaim at the same time. "You came!" "What are you doing here?"

He tries to remember she left him. He tries to remember she abandoned Bae. He tries to remember she made a deal of some sort with the Morning Star and now she's pursuing the Dark One.

She's kept the comb he gave her.

In her time of need, she's turned to him. Finally.

She stands and reaches out her hands, as she never before reached out to him. He folds his arms. "What do you want, Estrilda?"

She resumes her sobbing. He will not be moved.

"I was so wrong, I was so wrong," she says. "To leave you and Baelfire. You hate me, I know it, and I deserve it. But if there's any part of you that still cares—if not because I'm your wife, then because I'm Bae's mother—then I beg you, put aside your anger and save my life."

"Why do you call me now? As I hear it, you're the property of the Morning Star. Why not summon him?"

She sits down hard on the stool. "Because he betrayed me."

He unfolds his arms. She's found the right button to push: he's curious now.

"Oh Rumplestiltskin," she sobs. "I turned to him because he could give me magic, and with magic, I could protect myself. I would be safe. No one could . . . do those things to me again. Do you understand?" She looks up at him imploringly. "If anyone can understand what that meant to me, it must be you. What you suffered is not so far apart from what I suffered."

He remains silent, but his features are softening.

"How could I be a mother and a wife when I hurt so much? And the magic—you have it now so you must know—it's true, it's true, no one dares to lift a hand to me again." She looks at him from the side of her eye. "That's why you made your deal, wasn't it? So I know you won't judge me, because you and I have done exactly the same thing for the same reason."

He suspects not: his deal included murder. Oh, but she's right: he's just as guilty as she. Just as corrupted. And for the same reason.

He clears his throat. "If you have magic, what do you want from me?"

"He sold me."

"He? The Morning Star?"

She nods. "Yes, except he's not the true Morning Star. He's stolen that name; he's the Deceiver. He bought me with magic and now he's sold me. I am to spend my life here, as a slave to King Theobald, doing magic at his beck and call. But you can release me, Rumplestiltskin." She grasps his hands. "Theobald is desperate for money. The Ogre War emptied his coffers. He promised he would release me if I could restore his wealth."

Rumplestiltskin shrugs. "Why do you need me? Why don't you just snap your fingers and. . . change those stones to diamonds?"

"My magic is too limited. I tried, and the best I can produce is this." She reaches into her apron pocket and produces a handful of glittering dust. He inspects it, tastes it.

"Fool's gold," he says.

"The Deceiver gave me so little—and I, the fool, gave him my soul."

Rumplestiltskin sucks in a breath. "Your. . . soul? Oh, Estrilda! To give your life is one thing, but to give your soul. . . .!"

"I was a fool, a complete fool blinded by pain. He offered me protection and power. Can you understand that, my husband?"

The word hits him like a slap in the face. He steps backward in the force of it, and then he gathers strength and fights back. "I am not your husband any longer, Estrilda."

He expects she will sob, but what she does instead throws him off-balance. She lowers her head in shame, her hair coming loose from the comb and falling like a dark waterfall around her face. "I deserve that. So you do not love me, then. But for love of Bae, will you save his mother from slavery?"

For love of Bae—for guilt of his treatment of Bae—he nods. "Do you want diamonds? Silver? Gold?"

"Theobald knows of our connection; the Deceiver told him. It's common knowledge that you can spin gold from straw, and that's what Theobald wants."

"Common—" he echoes, then shrugs. "I don't know how these stories get started. I've never done such a thing."

"Oh, but you can! You must, or I'm lost!" She's begging now. "When you were a human, you were the master spinner. Now you are a mage, and you're the master of magic. Surely spinning gold would be the simplest of tasks for you."

He picks up a handful of straw and examines it. "I suppose I could."

She sparkles. "And would it not be fun to try?"

"Where do these stories come from," he mutters. "Why don't I just—" and he snaps his fingers and changes the straw into a brick of gold.

"Theobald wants spun gold, 'as light as angel's hair,' he said."

"Ridiculous," Rumple complains, but he uses his magic to fashion a leader from a leaf of straw. He studies it. It _is_ something different. "All right, if I do this for you, what we will you pay me?"

She considers, then removes the comb from her hair and offers it.

He slips the comb into his jacket. "All right." He sits down on the floor, snaps his fingers and transforms the Great Wheel into a charka. And then he begins to spin, his eyes closed, the rough, brittle straw irritating his fingers, and as thought becomes a spell, he feels the coarse material become smooth and cool, and he opens his eyes and sees he's done it: he's spun gold from straw.

He closes his eyes again, enjoying the quiet whirr of the wheel. He's never felt anything so light and delicious against his fingers. With a small smile he figures he'll have to do this more often.

* * *

She calls him back the next day.

"Theobald was thrilled," she gushes. "Thank you, Rumplestiltskin! You've saved my life."

"So you're free to go then. Will you go back to _him_?" He's referring to the Deceiver.

"I'm free." She throws her head back and her arms out in celebration. For a moment he wonders if she will hug him. . . or kiss him. He's not sure if he'd like that. He reminds himself she left him; she abandoned Bae.

But she doesn't touch him. She does instead turn her glowing face to him. "Theobald has made me another offer."

"Oh no, another deal is the last thing you—"

"But he offered me a title—I'm to be a duchess, with a duchy of my own to rule. Can you imagine, Rumplestiltskin? Me, daughter of a dirt farmer, a duchess with a grand estate and servants and carriages!"

He shrugs. "You have magic. You can make those things for yourself."

"I can make an estate and carriages and servants, but I can't make myself noble." She clasps her hands. "Oh Rumple, it's what I've always dreamed of!"

"What does he want now? Diamonds from chicken feed?"

"More gold from straw, that's all. What you made was enough to pay his debts, but he needs more. Winter is coming, and the crops were not good this year. He needs a nest egg."

Rumple snorts. "The man has no imagination. And what will you pay me this time, Estrilda?"

She's already decided. She holds out her left hand and yanks off a ring, presenting it to him proudly.

"Your wedding ring," he grumbles. "You kept it."

"I was faithful to you," she says, "in my own fashion."

The human in him demands that he turn heel and disappear, taking the ring with him, since she thinks so little of it. The Dark One wants the deal. His hands are enflamed. When he takes the ring, sparks fly from his fingers. He must release some of this magic before it drives him crazy.

So with a groan he sits and spins.

* * *

On the third day, she summons him again. He's learned his lesson: as soon as he arrives, he refuses and raises his hand, bringing forth the magic to take him away again.

She drops to her knees. "He promised to marry me and make me queen."

This stops him dead in his tracks.

"Let me go, Rumplestiltskin. Our time has passed. I will always be grateful for your kindness; you were a fine husband. But Theobald has offered me so much more. Give me my life and my dream; if you ever cared for me at all, let me be happy!"

"Our marriage ended when you sold yourself for magic," he realizes. "You will do as you will, whatever I say, so go, and may Theobald be content with his choice, and you with yours." His voice softens a little as he hears the bitterness in his words.

"Thank you, Rumplestiltskin. I will never forget your generosity."

He snorts. The Dark One informs him he's better off shed of her. He turns to leave, but she grabs his sleeve.

"There's more."

Of course. "What is it now, Estrilda?"

"We need more gold, to secure our future. Our kingdom is starving, Rumplestiltskin. Please."

He grasps the last straw. "You have nothing more to give me."

"I do, I'm sure I do." She fumbles in her pockets, but of course they're empty. And then she smiles. "Rumplestiltskin, I know your love of children."

He backs away. "What are you saying?"

"And I know what happened to Bae. I know the fairies stole him and put him out of your reach."

"You know this, and still you stand here talking about gold and titles? Why are you not helping me to find him?"

"If you help me, perhaps I can help you. I'm not without influence, you know."

"No." That she would offer her son as a bargain chip makes him ill.

"I don't mean it that way," she implores. "What I mean is, when I'm queen I will go to the Morning Star on your behalf. I'll bend the knee and beg for Bae's safe return. That's a promise; it's not the payment I'm offering. For my payment—if you spin this straw into gold, I will give you my second-born child."

His heart stops—and she knows it. If this unholy union produces a child, how will that child suffer under a mother who would trade him away and a father who would enslave a woman for gold? He prays there will be no child, but if there is, he must rescue the boy, find a secure home for him. Far better that the child be raised with poor but loving parents than to be raised by the likes of these.

One last time he sits down at the charka.

* * *

**A/N. We haven't seen the last of Estrilda. I've only crawled out halfway on the limb with this particular theory. And Belle's still waiting in the wings. . . .**


	14. Chapter 14

Fourteen

Her voice interrupts his sleep. This time, however, there's no alarm in Estrilda's tone, only joy, so Rumple drags himself out of bed, dresses (with a snap of the fingers, of course) and transports himself to her.

"Much better," he says as he materializes, for she's in a clean, elegantly appointed bedroom on the uppermost floor of a castle, and she's attired in a red silk gown—sewn with gold thread, he notes. "I take it you're satisfied with your end of our bargain?"

On her left hand she wears a gold band encrusted with diamonds. When she seizes his hands, he can feel that the ring's metal is indeed precious. "So you are a queen now," he observes. He reminds himself that she's not the sixteen-year-old he married twenty years ago—and then he remembers it was exactly twenty years ago today, and he pulls away from her embrace.

She pretends not to notice. "I am," she gushes, and she swirls so that her skirts billow. "It's everything I dreamed of. Oh Rumplestiltskin, if you could only see how they bow and curtsey and try so hard to please me. My slightest whim is instantly fulfilled, no matter what it costs, or who has to pay." She chuckles. "And everywhere I go, twelve armed soldiers surround me. You really should try it, Rumplestiltskin; instead of sulking alone in that drafty castle of yours, you could be a king, and then no one would ever insult you or slight you or beat you again." She runs a hand over his chest and smiles slyly. "I could make it happen for you. Please, I'd love to do that for you, in return for what you did for me."

He is silent; the Dark One is mulling over the offer, until she says the one thing that reminds him who he really is. "Just think how proud Bae would be if he came back to find his father is a now a king."

Exactly. Just think of Bae. He grabs her wrist and shoves her hand away. "Well, Estrilda, I hope your new life will continue to be all that you had hoped. Now, if there's nothing else—"

"Oh, but there is. It's my turn now." Her expression suddenly loses its calculation and becomes innocent. He wonders how she does that. "I am going to deliver upon my promise: I have an audience with the Deceiver. I'm going to beg him for Bae's safe return."

The Dark One tells him he should know better, but Rumple believes her. It's the closest thing to hope he's been offered. "Thank you, Estrilda."

"I'm happy to do it for you. But Rumplestiltskin, I need your help. He's a powerful and persuasive man." She twists her hands nervously. "I find myself weak when I stand before him, bending to his will. If you're beside me, I can remember my purpose and stand firm against him." Before he can object, she blurts, "You don't have to say or do anything, just stand with me. It will only take a few minutes, and then we'll be back here, safe and sound, with Bae in our arms. Then I'll bid you both farewell forever, and I'll be at peace knowing you're happy and Bae's safe."

"Are you asking me to accompany you to Hell?"

"Only for a few minutes. You needn't be afraid. He can't touch you if you don't allow it. You're still human; you have free will."

"I'm also the Dark One. He created the first Dark One; he controlled all the Dark Ones, except for my predecessor."

Estrilda touches his arm and he can feel her magic rippling through her hand, reaching into his body, into his blood. . . taking his measure. "And you—he doesn't control you. You're not the Dark One. The Dark One resides in you, but as long as you retain your humanity, you're still Rumplestiltskin. I can feel it in you now: the Dark One hides in a corner of your soul, waiting for his chance to take you, but there's a spark of kindness in you that puts you out of his reach—it's the part of you that still loves. As long as you remember Bae and Saer and my mother and father, you'll preserve that spark, and the Dark One can't master you and the Deceiver can't touch you. Remember, too, Rumplestiltskin, only the one who possesses the dagger can control you—and you possess the dagger."

"How do you know about the dagger?" he whispers.

She seems sad. "I can read it in your blood. A great deal of information comes to you when you sell yourself to the Deceiver, as I did." She releases him, and his skin where she touched him burns. She brightens. "Wouldn't it be fun to confront the Deceiver, knowing that deep inside, he's seething because you've broken his connection to the Dark One?"

"I can think of more pleasant ways to find entertainment," he says wryly.

"You want Bae back, don't you? Didn't you tell the Blue Star you'd do anything to rescue Bae? Think of all your failures. Years of studying dusty old books, of kowtowing to lesser mages to learn their secrets, and what has it bought you? Are you any closer to Bae?"

"No," he has to admit.

"Ah, but you are now. The curtain between Hell and that other world where the Blue Fairy sent Bae is a flimsy one. The Deceiver can pass through it with as little effort as a man walking through a cloud. Stand beside me, Rumplestiltskin, a mother and a father confronting the Morning Star together, unconquerable. For their son's sake."

He listens for a moment to the Dark voice in his brain that offers a single thought: _go home_. For the Dark One, Hell is home. What danger could he find there?

"Don't desert Bae as you did Samer."

The final nail is driven. He answers lowly, "Take me."

* * *

It's nothing as he's been told.

The land undulates with soft green hills dotted with wildflowers and shady weeping willows. Sheep graze under the guidance of a protective dog. Estrilda and Rumple arrive upon the bank of a glassy river and a butterfly lands on his shoulder. "You see?" she laughs deep in her throat.

Rumple scowls. "There's a reason he's called the Deceiver." As soon as he speaks those words, the hills and the sheep and the river vanish and in their place is—nothing. An empty space.

Estrilda sighs. "Must you be so literal? You take all the fun out of travel." She straightens her dress and her hair; as she does, he watches her body change, becoming stronger before his eyes. Then she calls out, "Morning Star, I summon thee."

A gold light appears overhead. As they wait, it enlarges, its beams reaching toward them; the light engulfs her and she basks in its glow. Rumple remains in the dark.

A warm baritone voice greets them. "Welcome home, son." The gold light condenses, concentrates itself into a single point, then a shape forms. At first it's so bright it blinds him; then it fades and blinks away, and in its place stands a tall, handsome man of indeterminate age, a man of regal bearing, attired in—

Attired in peasant's clothes. Attired, in fact, in the same clothing Rumplestiltskin wore when he was a lowly spinner. Rumple will never forget those clothes; they were the only ones he owned when he was at his lowest point financially. . . in the weeks before Hodor and the Old Beggar came to Tardolith.

When the Morning Star speaks, it's with an accent that is all accents at once. His accent is Alsfordian, reminding Rumple of home; it's also layered with exotic pronunciations that imply worldliness and sophistication. Whatever the listener desires in a voice, he'll find it in the Deceiver's. A fine trick, Rumple thinks: he may try it himself someday.

Rumple's hands tingle with magic. The Dark One is squealing with glee like a little lost child who's just found his way home to Papa. Rumplestiltskin takes control. "So you're the Deceiver."

The Morning Star lays a hand upon his chest. "You wound me, my son."

"I'm no son of yours," Rumple spits. "My father was—" and he has to stop.

The Morning Star smiles gently. "I could tell you who your father was, Rumplestiltskin. And your mother. In fact, I can answer every question you've ever had about your past—and your future."

"No you can't," Rumple interrupts. "I don't deny you have certain information, but my future is out of your reach. Even a lowly imp knows the rules: the Source has granted us free will."

"That reminds me." The Morning Star runs a thoughtful hand over his mouth, then suddenly smiles and flicks that hand, and inside Rumple's brain the Dark One shrieks. "Welcome home, Dark One. Maybe the human part of you has free will, Rumplestiltskin, but the Dark One belongs to me."

"Indeed? Then produce the dagger and I'll kneel to you."

The Morning Star saddens. "My poor boy, don't you know I watch you, there alone in your empty castle? Don't you know how I ache for you when they revile you and curse you, after all you've done for them? But you mustn't blame them too much, my son; it's not their fault. They're only human—and you're not. You're unique, and that sets you apart from them; they will never appreciate you. You'll never find kinship among them. But here—" he swings his arms out in welcome. "Here you're not alone. All are just like you. Here is your home, Rumplestiltskin. Here is love."

Rumple snorts and nudges Estrilda, who is staring with her mouth open. "Get on with it."

She blinks, as if awakening, and then she sinks to her knees, her head bent, her hands clasped. "I've fulfilled my end of the bargain. Now I ask that you fulfill yours."

Rumple is confused: does she mean him? He has his answer when the Morning Star flicks a hand and the three of them are transported into complete darkness and silence.

After a moment Rumple can hear his own breath rasping, rebounding off walls. He's in a confined space; that's all he can tell. He calls forth his magic to produce light, but nothing happens. His hands won't even tingle. He asks the Dark One for an explanation, but the Dark One remains silent.

Finally light appears, moving toward him, and then the light fills the space and Rumple can see the Morning Star and Estrilda standing before him—and iron bars separating them from him.

Estrilda is now clothed in black velvet robes encrusted with jewels. She wears a heavy gold medallion that bounces light. She smiles.

The Morning Star spreads his hands. "Welcome to your new castle, Rumplestiltskin."

Rumple looks around to find he's in a box, barely big enough for him to stand or spread his arms. The metal walls glitter. When he scrapes a finger against the glitter, he gets an electric shock and his finger comes away burnt.

"Fairy dust," the Morning Star explains. "We raided a mine last week in preparation for your visit. I suggest you don't touch anything. Dark Ones are allergic to fairy dust, you know. Oh, and that's why your magic failed you. Exposure to such a heavy dosage of fairy dust weakens your magic. Prolonged exposure—well, let's just say, for Dark Ones it's a hell of a way to go."

Estrilda clears her throat to draw attention. "Introduce me properly, please."

The Morning Star bows to her. "Forgive me, my dear. Rumplestiltskin, may I present the Queen of Hearts."

"My master has given me the power to control men by removing their hearts. And so from now on I will be called Cora, which in Greek means 'heart.'"

"And which is derived from 'Kore,' the Greeks' name for the Queen of the Underworld." The Deceiver kisses her hand. "Which someday you may be, my dear."

"Congratulations," Rumple mutters. "So I guess there was no King Theobald."

"No," she admits. "Just a way to see if you still cared for me, to get you re-invested in me. Though it was a lot of fun, watching you spin gold."

Rumple realizes he's revealing a weakness by asking, but he can't stop himself. "And your promise about Bae?"

To the imp's surprise, the Morning Star answers, "Oh, that's legitimate. In fact, that's why I put you here, so you'd listen to me. You see, I can smell your cowardice, Rumplestiltskin, and I knew you were ready to bolt at any second. Here, you'll have to stay put and hear me out."

Rumple shrugs.

"As I said before, you're unique." The Morning Star begins to pace. "No other being like you has ever been, or ever will be. No other Dark One was able to retain his humanity as you have. That makes you interesting. You're half mine, but you're half His."

"'His' who?"

"Him. You call Him 'the Source.' Enough about Him." The Morning Star shudders. "Let's talk about me. Through the Dark One, you're my son. You owe me. I own you. Simple as that. Except for that little bit of leftover human in you. It used to irritate me, but then I got to thinking: I could put that to use. You see, I watched you make deal after deal with humans. No matter what price you charge them, they take the deal; no matter how much terror you spread, they keep coming to you. I think it's because of that little spark of humanity you've hung onto. They see a little bit of themselves and a little bit of Him in you, and I think that's why they trust you. It's very intriguing, and it could be very useful to me."

The Morning Star pauses in his pacing and sets his hands on the bars. He leans in, so that Rumple can see his face clearly, his large eyes that sometimes appear brown, sometimes blue. But it's his hands that Rumple studies: narrow hands with long fingers. Hands that could spin.

Rumple swallows hard, wishing he was back home right now in the company of his Great Wheel. "What do you want?" he manages to say.

"You." The Morning Star answers as though it's obvious. "Come to work for me. It's my intention to educate humanity on the foolishness of their condition. You see, I'm an emancipator. I'll free them from His yoke. Once they've risen up in war against Him, they'll be free."

"So you're a humanitarian," Rumple's voice drips with sarcasm.

"Well, not entirely selfless, I admit: my reward will be the satisfaction of ending slavery once and for all—and seeing Him crushed beneath my boot. You understand that, don't you, Rumplestiltskin?" The Morning Star grins. "After all the abuse I've taken, I want Him to kiss my boot."

Bile rises in Rumple's throat.

"So here's my deal: come to work for me. _With_ me. I know you have ideas of your own; I admire your creativity. I'll give you free rein as long as your means satisfy my ends. A full partner in the business, so to speak."

"Smart," Rumple says. "Estrilda wanted a title, so you gave it to her. I wanted a business, so you offer it to me."

"Everyone gets what they want. A perfect deal, is it not? And just to cinch it, just to show you what a generous business partner I can be. . . ." The Morning Star forms his hands into a circle. Within that circle, a ball of light forms. He pulls his hands outward and the ball follows along, growing bigger and brighter. "Look into the center," he instructs.

At first Rumple sees only a stone wall. As the Morning Star expands the ball, a full, sharp image emerges: a prison cell with iron bars and stone walls. Sitting on a steel bed in the cell is a brown-haired boy. His hands are on his knees and his head hangs low. The Morning Star calls softly, "Oh, Bae. . . ." and the boy raises his head, his brown eyes searching.

"Would you like to speak to him?" The Morning Star offers.

Rumple bites his lip and shakes his head.

"It's no parlor trick, I assure you. Go ahead, speak to him. He'll hear you."

Rumple turns away.

The Morning Star sighs. "Don't you at least want to know where he is, and why?"

Rumple remains silent, staring at the fairy dust.

The Morning Star clicks his tongue. "So cold-hearted have you grown that you won't speak a few words of comfort to your only child in his time of need?"

Rumple clears his throat. "What do you want?"

"I'll bring him to you. He'll live a long and happy life with you, I promise, walking the earth freely, under my protection. You'll retain all your powers and I'll give you even more. He'll grow to be a man you can be proud of. He'll marry a woman who adores him and they'll produce fine strong children who will sit in your lap and call you 'Grandpapa.' Now isn't that exactly what you've wanted your entire life?"

The word wrenches from his throat. "Yes."

The Morning Star closes his hands and the ball of light vanishes. "It's yours. All I have to do is wave my hand, and you'll wake up in your castle, and your boy will be waiting for you at the breakfast table. Your life as you've dreamt it will begin."

"What do I—" Rumple fights but loses. "What price do I have to pay?"

"Very simple. Come to work for me. I won't take much of your time. A day here and there; most of your time will be yours to share with Bae and his children and his children's children. You do what I ask in any fashion you choose, as long as you achieve my goals. And as a mark of good faith, all I ask is that you give me back what's rightfully mine."

"The dagger."

Estrilda bubbles over. "You see, Rumplestiltskin? You see? Everything you want, everything you deserve, and all he requires is your fealty."

That word jerks him back. He remembers the last time he tried to buy freedom with his fealty. But he's stuck here in the box, powerless; he sees no choice. He buys himself a moment to think by asking, "How did you lose it, anyway? And to such a fool as the Duke of the Flatlands."

The Morning Star tosses a hand in the air disdainfully. "One of my minions." He clicks his tongue. "A _lesser_ minion called Mephistopheles. During the time of your predecessor, I sent Mephistopheles on an errand, to start a war."

"The First Ogre War," Estrilda supplies. "The one you ran from."

"He throws a lovely war. And it achieved my purpose for you, made you the scapegoat, the pariah, starving, beaten, humiliated. In short, desperate. You see, I'd selected you a long time ago to be the next Dark One. Your predecessor had done well by me, but you had potential the likes of which I'd never seen. And when Estrilda—"

She corrects him. "Queen Cora."

He corrects her, putting her in her place. "When Estrilda offered herself to me, you were as good as mine. So I sent Mephistopheles with the dagger; he was to stage the event, you see, that would make you the new Dark One. Only the fool—well, he has a taste for the human vices, and the Duke plied him with wine and dancing girls, and then got him into a card game." The Morning Star shrugs.

"So the Duke won the dagger in a game of poker."

"Essentially, yes. But we soon corrected that error. And here we are."

"Well, what say you, Rumplestiltskin? This deal is exactly what you desire, and the price he's asking is no sacrifice at all for you," Estrilda surmises. "I'll make it easy for you. Tell me where the dagger is and I'll bring it here."

Rumple hesitates. He can see no way out.

"What you'll be doing for me is no different from what you're already doing. Roping them in, selling them a bill of goods in return for signing over their souls. For a man who's committed murder and arson, pretty tame stuff, I should imagine, but I guarantee you a higher plane: you'll be taking the souls of kings and emperors. The crème de la crème." The Morning Star smirks. "Now won't that be fun? Delicious revenge on the very sort who sent you to die in war and would have done the same to your son."

Rumple wavers. "I need to think. Alone. Let me have a minute alone to think."

"What harm?" Estrilda shrugs.

"One minute." The Morning Star and his queen vanish, and with them the light, leaving Rumple alone in his fairy-dust lined coffin. In desperation he calls forth his magic again, but nothing comes.

He searches his memory: everything he's read, everything he's been taught by other mages. There must be a way to overcome the fairy dust and release himself.

In the back of his mind the Dark One implores, _This is home. This is home_.

He admits the truth in what the Morning Star has said. Rumplestiltskin has murdered and burned and twisted minds to achieve his own ends: so what if the devil benefits too? To bring down kings. . . to be here, with his own kind. . . to have Bae back. To have Bae and Bae's children and children's children.

* * *

**A/N. So now I'm all the way out on the limb. The theory that Cora had some sort of past with Rumplestiltskin has been discussed quite a bit in the fandom, especially since "Stable Boy" dropped the hint that Cora was a miller's daughter. Several fans have gone farther, suggesting that Cora might have been Rumple's former wife. I resisted that theory for a long time because I just couldn't see the mild-mannered pre-curse Rumple and the ethically minded Bae sharing a life with Cora as we know her now. But the more I thought about the changes that desperation put Rumple through, the more it seemed possible that Bae's mother could follow a similar path.**


	15. Chapter 15

Fifteen

To have Bae, to have Bae, to have Bae.

The thought draws him up short. He wouldn't have Bae.

It was a damn lie. Bae would never return willingly to the Dark One, and would certainly never allow himself to fall into the Morning Star's hands. Bae would stand up to the Deceiver. Bae would use whatever weapon he had at hand to fight. Bae would—

Bae would ask for help. Call upon the Blue Fairy. Well, Bae's father doesn't have that option; he burned that bridge long ago. So, with no friend and no magic, what weapon does Rumple have left?

"Your minute is up!" Estrilda and the Morning Star appear in a glare of light. "What's your decision?"

He blurts, "I want a deal."

"Of course you do," the Morning Star smiles. "Just tell us where the dagger is and a deal you shall have."

"No. Not that deal. A new one." Rumple is improvising, but he's desperate. "You—you said I was unique. You said that they trust me because of the spark of humanity in me."

"So I did."

"You said they see a little bit of Him in me."

"So?"

"If I—if I surrender my soul to you, I'll lose that spark. I'll be just another run-of-the-mill Dark One. Just a high-priced mage making ordinary deals. Nothing memorable, nothing that advances your cause to any noticeable degree." Rumple pushes his face forward to stare hard at his adversary. "If you take that little bit of goodness out of me, you lose a once-in-a-millennium opportunity. Tell me, Morning Star: when was the last time you got to really rub His nose in it by having your bidding done by someone He's marked as one of His?"

The Deceiver raises an eyebrow. "What are you talking about, Rumplestiltskin?"

"Send me back. Let me continue to work as I have been, with the Dark One under my management. Let the humans continue to see a spark of goodness in me and put their trust in me."

"I don't see a deal here. What do I get out of this?"

"The curse to end all curses."

"I know you've been seeking that curse for years, not for my benefit, but as a way of getting to your son. So you're offering me nothing."

"I'm offering you the curse that destroys Fairytale Land and sends all the good people living in it into an eternity of suffering. How would He feel, day after day after day, watching innocent people suffer with no hope of rescue, with not even the release of death to look forward to?"

"Oh?"

"An eternity of agony and He can't do a thing about it because it was human will that created it—my will. Of course, if I sell myself to you, I'm no longer human, and that gives Him the power to undo all my hard work."

"Hmm. . ."

"And consider this: how would He feel, knowing that this suffering came about all because He was foolish enough to give humans free will?"

"It was indeed the act of a fool. . . ."

"Make me a demon and I have no chance of gathering everything I need to complete the curse. Leave me to my own devices and you sign Fairytale Land's death sentence."

"You will give up all that I offered you to remain free?"

"The curse means more to me than anything you could offer."

"Even Bae?"

"For you to bring Bae to me, without the curse being enacted, would mean nothing to me. Release me and you'll have the curse and I'll have Bae. Two people with a common goal can accomplish anything. To sweeten the deal, upon occasion, as opportunity arises, I'll do special favors for you, if they suit my purpose."

Estrilda steps in, to Rumple's eternal surprise. "Oh, take the deal, master. Rumplestiltskin unleashed will do more harm to humanity that he will under your thumb."

The Deceiver waves his hand and the coffin-prison vanishes. "For the moment, let's see what you can accomplish. Not even I can create the curse you've described. I must say, you've piqued my curiosity. I'll leave you an independent contractor as long as your work pleases me. But breach this contract and I'll have your soul."

Estrilda leans in and kisses Rumple's cheek. "Goodbye, dearie, and good luck."

A bright light blinds Rumplestiltskin. When his vision clears, he's standing at the entrance to the Dark Castle. Shaking, he raises a hand and runs it across his face.

He enters the castle without opening the gate. Not that a locked gate could keep the Deceiver out, but Rumple lies to himself that he's now safe. Safe but under surveillance. He makes his way to the Great Wheel and begins to spin frantically, as though he can spin himself right out of sight.

* * *

The magic tells him a baby has arrived.

Too bad, he responds. This is one deal he'll let slip. He has no desire to see Estrilda—or whatever she's calling herself these days—again. That would be begging for trouble.

He busies himself at the wheel, burning off the excess magic by spinning silver and platinum, just to give himself a challenge. If you really want something precious, the human in him says, what's more precious than a baby? He ignores that and continues to spin.

Two days pass, two restless, guilt-filled days. He's being a coward and a baby will suffer because of it. He spins and spins but can't forget that baby. On the third day, a crow arrives on his window sill, tapping tapping tapping until he opens the window and allows it in.

"You will claim that baby," the crow demands. "By order of His Highness the Morning Star."

"Claim her and take her where?" Rumple asks.

"Nowhere. Simply claim her."

"Do you mean I'm supposed to keep her?"

"Simply claim her."

"You're no help at all," Rumple complains, and the crow flies away.

Still, Rumple ignores the summons, goes back to spinning. But he finds that instead of producing spun silver he's producing lead, and it burns his fingers. He leaves the wheel, tries to read, but the letters on the page rearrange themselves into nonsense. He slams the book shut. "All right, I'm going."

He forms a picture of Estrilda in his mind, concentrates on it, then when it's fixed he orders the magic to take him to her. He discovers her in a bedroom, but not the same one she resided in earlier—smaller, with older furniture. Still, it's clean and sunny and a lot nicer than most people have. She's sitting up in bed; the baby sleeps in a crib in a corner of the room, forgotten. Two maids attend Estrilda, so he waits in the shadows until they leave.

He peeks into the crib. The baby is undersized. Someone should be feeding her. And she's uncovered in a chilly room, so he winds his finger in a circle and magic swaddles her in a blanket. He grits his teeth: he's taking this baby.

When the maids have gone—neither of them having bothered to check on the baby—Rumple emerges from the shadows. "Estrilda."

She adjusts her position in the bed so she can look at him. "Cora," she corrects. "I thought I felt you here."

"Congratulations," he clips the word.

She shakes her head. "He's only a duke. I wouldn't have bothered except he's a close confidant of King Gladwin. Besides, he's a milquetoast. _I_ run the duchy."

"No, I wasn't congratulating you on your marriage. I meant the baby."

"Oh. Yes. It's a girl. I'd planned on a boy, an heir. But I suppose it's workable. Gladwin has a young son; when he grows up, he'll need a wife."

The magic buzzes in Rumple's head and he gets a flash of the future: this child will fulfill her mother's expectations—but in ways Estrilda cannot imagine. His body jerks and he stares, flabbergasted, at the sleeping baby as the magic delivers the news: this girl will bring his curse into being.

So that's why the Deceiver is interested in her.

He clears his throat, getting down to business. "Have you forgotten our bargain?"

She smiles charmingly. "No, but I hoped you had."

"Your second-born child belongs to me." He reaches into the crib and lifts the baby. The child opens her eyes and stares at him. At least, that's how it appears: he remembers that a newborn doesn't see all that well. He settles the baby against his shoulder and begins to plan for her future. He'll need to take her to another realm, so Estrilda can't find her. . . .

Estrilda appears beside him, her hand on his arm. "Leave her. She belongs to me."

"She belongs—"

"No. She is to be raised by me. She will achieve what you and I could not." She leans into him. "I know you can see it, just as clearly as I do. For me, she will be a queen. For you, she will deliver the curse that takes you to Bae. If you take her, none of that will happen. _I _must raise her, if she's to be strong enough to carry out our will."

The baby makes a little cry; the father in him identifies the cry and he conjures a bottle to feed her. His hand is shaking as he realizes what kind of person this child will have to become if she's to fulfill Estrilda's plans for her—and if she's to enact his curse. If he leaves her here, he's abandoning her to a life of misery.

But he's also ensuring that his curse will come to be. . . that he will reach the Land Without Magic. That he will find Bae.

"Her name is Regina. Latin for 'queen.'" Estrilda reaches for the baby.

He tightens his hold on the baby. Choose, the Dark One laughs: Regina's life or Bae's. Regina or Bae. There must be a sacrifice; the magic must be paid for.

He bends his head to Regina's and whispers to her. "Forgive me. Someday, I'll make it all up to you." But that's a lie. "I'll try to keep you from going too far," he whispers lamely.

"Give her to me," Estrilda demands.

"I'll be watching." He tries to sound tough, but it comes out as resignation.

Estrilda clucks her tongue. "Still a coward. Sometimes I wonder if you really want to find Bae as badly as you claim you do." She lays the baby in the crib, using her magic to prop the bottle so Regina can drink. Estrilda sets her hands on her hips and turns to face him. "We're done here."

The Dark One mimics her: _We're done here._ The Morning Star is satisfied, though nothing's changed; Estrilda still has the baby. But late that night, as he spins and spins, he realizes something has changed: Rumplestiltskin has.

* * *

As he promised, he has been watching Regina, though he has never interfered. Estrilda must mold her, if she is to become the curse bringer. So it's a bit of a surprise when Regina summons him on the morning of her sixteenth birthday. He probably shouldn't respond; he's not supposed to enter her life for another six years.

Guilt drives him to her. She's sitting beneath a weeping willow; a horse grazes nearby. It would seem a peaceful scene if not for the fact that she's crying. He calls to her as soon as he arrives so he won't startle her.

"You're Rumplestiltskin?" she asks, clambering to her feet. Her long black hair, hanging in single braid down her back, reminds him of Estrilda, but nothing in her manner suggests her mother. Rumple knows that's because her father has raised her; her mother was too busy buying and stealing and confiscating land.

He bows. "I am indeed. And you are Regina, daughter of Duke Henry."

She makes a face. "And Duchess Cora. You know me, then?"

He strolls over to the horse and occupies himself by petting it. Regina makes him nervous. "I know a great deal, dearie. I'm a very old man."

"A man of great powers, they say." She walks over to the horse too and tries to catch Rumple's eye. "A man who could help me."

He's dreaded this question for sixteen years. "Perhaps."

"If you know me, I suppose you already know what I want."

"Smart girl."

"And I suppose you know why."

He sighs. "You want me to make you a witch."

She lays a hand over his, preventing him from petting the horse further, urging him to turn to her. "It's not just for me. She humiliates my father too, and the servants, and anyone who disobeys her or gets in her way." When he doesn't answer, she presses, "Sometimes it's more than humiliation. Do you know what she did to the gardener last week?"

"Aye." Estrilda had changed the poor man into a mosquito and then squashed him between her fingers.

"She has to be stopped. Rumplestiltskin, I'm afraid. Is this the way it's supposed to be, a girl afraid of her own mother?"

Rumple squeezes her hand; it's all the comfort he can offer. "I can't make you a witch, dearie."

"Who can?"

She doesn't back down, this one; it's why she will deliver his curse. He must be honest with her. "Regina, you will have what you want, but not now. You're not ready yet."

"But my father and I need help _now_. Can't you stop her? They say you're the most powerful man in the world; even she has said your magic is stronger than hers. Put a spell on her, take her powers away, can't you?"

"No."

"Put her in prison, then. Surely you can do that."

"No. I'm sorry, Regina. You must be patient. The time will come when you will defeat her, but not yet. You will be more powerful than she is, but with that power will come a terrible price. Don't ask for the deal sooner than you must."

"But I must ask now!"

"No. For now, you must. . ." He waves a hand vaguely. "Enjoy life as much as you can. Enjoy your innocence, because it will soon be stolen from you."

Exasperated, she throws her hands in the air. "Will you do nothing, then?"

He releases the horse and turns to face her. "I. . . will listen."

"What?"

With a bit of magic he produces a blanket, which he spreads on the ground, and a bottle of cider, which he pours into two glasses. Presenting her with one of the glasses, he invites her to sit. "Talk, and I will listen."

She groans, but she accepts the invitation.

* * *

Years pass, and he continues to watch her even as he goes about his business—and sometimes, the Morning Star's business. She summons him when the strain is too much and she needs to vent. He always brings cider, until the day she turns eighteen and then he brings wine, and on that day, they celebrate, because Henry has hired a new stable boy, a young, handsome stable boy who is attentive and bold and follows her with his eyes as she walks, and sometimes when he helps her into the saddle his hands linger, and pleasurable shivers run up her spine.

Rumplestiltskin realizes then it will be a long time before she summons him again, as she now has someone else who will listen. His heart aches, not because he's lost her companionship, for that's just the progress of nature, but because he knows what comes next.

In three years, Regina will become queen.

When he returns to his castle that night, he begins to spin the silver thread that will become her wedding gown. It will be his gift to her on her happy, happy day.


	16. Chapter 16

Sixteen

The change had to come. He didn't know how Cora would affect it, but obviously it would have to be by means of the horriblest of evils, to turn Nature's beloved child into the Morning Star's adopted daughter. But it had to happen: becoming the Evil Queen is Regina's destiny.

As Rumple sits, invisible, in the back row at the wedding of King Leopold and Lady Regina, he finds himself tearing up, just as Duchess Cora in the front row is doing—the difference being that Rumple's tears are genuine, for as she walks down the aisle on her father's arm, Regina stares out the world with empty eyes. His magic reads her life force and reports back to him that her heart is dead.

Rumple knows why: he knows about Daniel.

The vows taken, the royal couple turns to face their families and friends/subjects. Cora even curtsies to her daughter before brushing her cheek with a cool kiss. As Regina walks down the aisle, now on her new husband's arm, Rumple makes a silent vow to her: he promises that each time he looks upon her, he will see not just the Evil Queen but the fresh-faced sixteen-year-old who'd come to him for help, and the three-day-old whom he might have rescued if he hadn't been such a selfish bastard.

Despite Regina's and Leopold's frozen smiles, it is, Rumple admits, a grand wedding and an even grander reception—a week-long affair that runs the gamut from ladies' afternoon tea parties to fireworks displays each night, all in honor of the new queen. At the first of these receptions—a very formal and exclusive ball for nobles only—Rumple makes an appearance, in disguise, of course, as a prince of a far away kingdom. He even brings a gift: a jade- and ruby-encrusted vase as tall as a man. With a guest list of more than two hundred, one gift-bearing party crasher raises no eyebrows. But unlike the other two hundred nobles, Rumple has come to speak not to the bride but to the little bridesmaid.

She spends most of the evening sitting prim and silent under her new step-grandmother's watchful eye, but when Leopold asks his mother-in-law to dance, Snow sneaks out onto the patio. She slips off her shoes and lifts her heavy skirt and wades into one of the castle's many reflecting pools, and that's how he finds her.

"Good evening, little princess," Rumple sweeps his hand broadly into his chest before making a deep bow. "A memorable night, is it not?"

"Yes, sir," she answers. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement.

"Such a lovely wedding! Such an elegant dress! And the flowers—I've never seen so many varieties of flowers."

"Yes, sir. Everything was so beautiful!"

"You seem so happy, Princess Snow."

"Oh, I am!" She clasps her hands. "Now my father will never be lonely again, and I have a mother!"

"Then I am happy for you, my princess. In my own country, I am known as a seer. Do you know what that is?"

"I read about it in a book. It's someone who can see the future."

"Exactly. And little one, in that capacity, I wish to give you a wedding gift."

"Me?" she steps out of the reflecting pool and slips her shoes back on before approaching him. "Thank you, sir!"

"My gift to you is a glimpse into your future."

"How wonderful! Can you really do that?" she practically wiggles with delight.

"Oh yes. And what I see for you"—he closes his eyes to describe the scene—"is a wedding of your own. You think now that no wedding could be as beautiful as the one you've just witnessed, but little princess, yours will be far more beautiful. Even the animals of the forest and the sea will celebrate, and the birds of the sky will sing your wedding song. Five hundred will be in attendance, but for you, there will be only one, for your heart will so overflow with love that your eyes can see only your husband."

"Oh, tell me about him!" Without fear she grasps his hands in a sort of plea.

"That's the best part. He is gallant and brave and handsome, and a very snappy dresser, if I do say so myself. Most importantly, what he feels for you and what you feel for him is the most powerful feeling in the world: it's True Love."

She bounces up and down. "Then my life will be perfection!"

He kneels on one knee, her hands still clutched in his. "Little Snow White, I have one more humble gift to offer you." He sends a small burst of magic through his hands and into hers; she smiles at the slight tingle she feels. He doesn't need magic, however, to inform him that this child possesses the purest of hearts—and that the world needs for her to keep that heart intact. "You will remember this prophecy and will hold it close to you in times of trial. Even when it seems the farthest thing from possible, deep in your heart you will believe, and your faith will carry you through."

"That's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard," she breathes.

"The truth often is, little princess." He stands, hoping he's gotten through to her, for she has a very rocky path ahead. He makes a final bow. "Now I must bid you good night, Princess Snow, and may all your dreams be happy ones."

As he turns to leave, she grasps his coat. "Sir! May I give you a gift too?"

He sets a hand on his chest, sincerely moved. "Me?"

She wiggles her finger, indicating he should bend toward her. When he does, she kisses his cheek. As he rises again, his eyes are moist. "Thank you, Snow White. That is the most beautiful of all gifts."

As he walks away, his hand touching his cheek, he suddenly has the answer to his dilemma. Yes, as the Deceiver will have it, as Regina will have it, as the Dark One will have it, and as the broken-hearted father Rumplestiltskin will have it, Regina will become a sorceress and will carry out his curse, but the pure-hearted Snow White will defeat her through the power of forgiveness.

Even the evil Rumplestiltskin will find forgiveness from her. To earn that forgiveness, he will make certain that Snow finds her charming prince, even if he has to manipulate them to bring them together.

* * *

King Leopold has been murdered. The means of his demise point clearly to the killer: a visitor from Agrabah. Conveniently, the visitor disappeared before he could be arrested.

Except that's not exactly what happened. Rumplestiltskin knows the truth.

Regina is now as evil as her mother. It's time for her to become as powerful. When she summons Rumple, he comes; he will answer her question this time. Alone in her private sitting room, she paces before the fire, her long black robes dusting the floor. He reads her life force again: her blood burns; she has filled her emptiness with rage.

"Make me a sorceress," she demands. "I don't care what it costs. I'll give you my kingdom if that's your price."

He sits down in a chair by the fire. "I can't."

"What's your price, then?"

He clicks his tongue. "You weren't listening, dearie. I didn't say I _wouldn't_; I said I _can't_." Well, he could—but since it would require her killing him with his dagger, he's not about to mention it.

She studies him—and then she finds the key. "All right then, tell me how my mother became a sorceress. Since I didn't inherit her magic, I assume she wasn't born with it."

"That's true." He wonders if the time will ever be right for him to tell her what her mother was like before the magic, but that would require him to describe his own role in Cora's life, and then she might turn on him.

Regina stops right in front of him and slams her hands down on the armrests on either side of him. "Tell me."

"She made a deal with the Deceiver."

"Where do I find him?"

"You really need to start listening, Your Majesty. He's called the Deceiver for a reason. The price he will charge you is the ultimate one: he'll take your soul."

"Will he give me magic for it?"

"He will _curse _you with magic."

"Where do I find him?"

He's wasting his breath. He knows her fate. "If you give him your soul, you can never reclaim it. You'll be his slave and your servitude will extend into eternity."

She slams her hands again. "I want magic!" She throws her head back and yells, "Deceiver! Can you hear me? Deceiver!" She glares at the imp. "If you can hear me when I call you from halfway around the world, and he's more powerful than you, then he can hear me, yes?"

Rumple hangs his head and nods.

In the time it takes him to nod twice, the Morning Star has appeared. He's dressed in a noble's finery, as befitting the audience he's being received into, and also as befitting, he bows and kisses the queen's hand. "Good evening, Your Majesty. I see Rumplestiltskin has been toying with you; such are the pitfalls of conversing with an imp. I am properly addressed at the Morning Star, or if you prefer something more incendiary, Lucifer."

Regina's not impressed. "Fine. Lucifer, then. Make me a sorceress as powerful as my mother."

"Ah, the delightful Cora. Now, Your Majesty, all due respect, but why would I bestow upon you powers equivalent to those I gave my favorite?"

"Your favorite?" This hadn't occurred to Regina before, but she won't be deterred. "Tell me what I would have to do to replace her in your esteem."

The Deceiver rests a familiar arm across her rock-solid shoulders and walks her away from Rumple. "You're off to a fine start, my pet. Let's discuss your future away from this eavesdropper, shall we?" But he calls back over his shoulder, "Stay where you are, imp. You'll have an assignment soon enough." He kisses the queen's hand again. "Her Majesty will need a teacher to instruct her in the use of her new powers."

Regina tosses her head in triumph.

* * *

Regina is a hands-on queen; Rumple doesn't need magic to predict that when she becomes a ruler in the Land Without Magic, she will hold a reputation for being what that world calls a micromanager. It leaves her little time for a personal life, and Rumple realizes that's just how she wants it. The less time alone and unoccupied, the less time she will have to second guess herself.

This quality, combined with other looming character flaws—impatience, inattention to details, lack of imagination—compounds the difficulty of the task Rumple's been handed: to teach Regina how to use her magic. He would have preferred to refuse the assignment, but from the moment he thrust Zoso's dagger into the Old Beggar's chest, he has been caught in Hell's vortex, from which, his years of study have shown, there are only two ways out: death by dagger or surrender of his powers to True Love's Kiss. Some nights—especially long winter nights alone in the Dark Castle—he would gladly accept the latter fate, except for the fact that the loss of magic would permanently separate him from Bae.

It's a fool's thought, anyway. For Rumplestiltskin, True Love's Kiss is just a fairy tale. No woman could love him lest he deceive her. . . and there's no room in his twisted soul to love someone back.

And so he has closed up shop, as it were, leaving his business and the Dark Castle behind to make himself available exclusively to Regina, whenever she can manage an hour away from her court. He begins with the smallest but most important of lessons: how to use the power sparingly, because every addition brought by magic requires an equal subtraction so that the universe can remain balanced. Centuries from now, in another world, in another form, Rumplestiltskin will read something that explains why: _For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction_. When he learns that this observation's author is an alchemist, Rumple will feel a keen kinship with him.

Regina, however, will not be schooled in theory. She dismisses Rumple's caution concerning the price of magic with a snappy reply: "Let someone else pay it then." She is so young. He can't see far enough into her future to know whether she will ever learn better.

And so he must forgo the lessons in the science, history and philosophy of magic and instead teach her the stunts. He begins with lessons in small, superficial changes: changes in an object's color or size or pattern. Along the way, he teaches her the fine motor skills of magic, how to avoid setting things on fire or instigating explosions by thinking rash thoughts. Control comes slowly for Regina; a year into their lessons, she still causes accidents: in the most recent, dissatisfied with her coif, she shrieked at her hairdresser, "You ass!" and the poor man was immediately transformed into a donkey.

Rumple has learned to dive for cover when the queen loses her temper.

In more advanced lessons, he teaches her how to change an object's shape or position, and during that week as he strolls the gardens alone with her, she takes delight in usurping Nature: she causes roses to take on the scent of onions and entire rows of fruit trees to yank up their roots and drag their trunks across the orchard in a bizarre quadrille.

Throughout the month in which she studies total transformation, she is insufferable. In her wake, carriages become pumpkins, coachmen become mice and duchesses' ball gowns become peasants' rags. He has to traipse along behind her all that month, undoing her impractical jokes. Only horses are safe from her pranks.

She starts practicing on people long before she's ready. Four people are maimed and two killed in her wake. He chastises her, but with little venom, for he can't forget the five soldiers he murdered on the morning after he gained his powers, nor the hapless cart driver, nor the mute maid, nor the fairy godmother. . . although, on second consideration, he'd probably done the world a favor with that last.

On the first anniversary of their schooling, she tells him why she sought magic so ruthlessly: she intends to kill Estrilda. She doesn't even seem concerned that she could be killed herself in the process.

It takes him nearly a year to rid her of that notion, and in the meantime she has come into full bloom as a sorceress. At last he gets through by promising her eternal suffering for Cora. He convinces her that it would be ever so much more satisfying to leave her mother in eternal torment than to kill her outright. "After all, killing will give you but a moment's pleasure; once it's done, it can't be redone, now can it? Ah, but to revisit the torment again and again, at any time you choose, that would be—"

"Delightful," she breathes. "Yes, I see it. Now, what torment? What would bring her to her knees?"

"Take away what she loves most."

Her long black skirts stir dust as she walks through her garden. She plucks a rose, then crushes it in her fist and changes it to ash when its thorns bite her. "Her magic? Can I do that? No, I suppose not, but I'm sure _he_ can—"

"No, it's not magic she loves most. It's position: her royal title. Though she couldn't become an earthly queen, she is the Deceiver's Queen of Hearts, and that's what she prizes above everything."

Regina's eyes flash. "I'll make her my scullery maid! And then every day of her life, I can watch her crawl in the dirt."

"Remember, dearie," he cautions, "you can't take her power away. She's not as strong as you, but she's much more experienced. To keep her underfoot would trip you up. What you can do is send her away, to someplace she can't escape from, yet someplace you can peek in on whenever you choose."

"What are you thinking, you nasty imp?"

"Send her to a realm of ridicule. Make her the ruler of a world without rules, a sovereign of the insane, and watch her slowly go mad herself."

Regina seizes his lapels. "Tell me."

"Wonderland."

* * *

A royal pilgrimage, Regina says, a political necessity; a queen must form alliances, and this queen wishes her mother to accompany her as a trusted advisor. They will travel in high style and the receiving royals will lavish them with exotic gifts. Cora accepts, of course, but before the Queen of Hearts arrives, Rumple presents Regina with a cloak that blocks other mages from detecting the presence of magic. Regina's magic is stronger than her mother's, but her mother is far more experienced and clever, so Regina must have the element of surprise on her side.

Rumple has arranged for a professional realm jumper to take the royal entourage through to Wonderland. Rumple neglects to mention that he could do the job himself; after nearly two years as Regina's personal tutor, he needs a vacation. Besides, he's been to Wonderland before, in search of materials for the curse he's creating; he's not eager to return. Nor, for that matter, is the realm jumper, but the price Regina offers persuades him. Rumple, meanwhile, remains safe and sane in the Enchanted Forest, serving as babysitter for Jefferson's infant daughter.

In less than a week it's over. Regina and Jefferson return, bringing with them the Queen of Diamonds, leaving behind Cora to rule Wonderland as a prisoner-queen.

Regina sweeps Rumplestiltskin into her private rooms, anxious to tell the tale. Blood had been shed, Regina reports—all of it on Cora's side. Regina says she will never forget the look of complete shock on Cora's face when her daughter turned on her, unleashing a volley of magic the magnitude of which would have impressed even the Morning Star. Even to the last, Cora just couldn't seem to get it through her head that her daughter had betrayed her. "She killed my beloved Daniel and expected me to be _grateful_," Regina spouts, and Rumple is almost sorry for both women. "Well, let me tell you, I wiped that look of shock right off her face." And then Regina laughs in such a deep voice that Rumple shivers. "In fact, I wiped every look right off her face."

"What do you mean?"

Regina gloats, "She wanted to be a queen. I made her one! I gave her the face of a queen wasp!"

Rumple's knees give way. Only fear prevents him from getting sick all over Regina's brocade settee. When he gains control of his voice, he announces, "I'll be taking my leave of you, Your Majesty." He rises and offers a hasty bow.

"But wait, I have another task for you. There's still the matter of that little traitor—"

"I can teach you nothing more." Indeed, there is a great deal more she should learn from him, but she's beyond guidance now. "Farewell, Regina." He doesn't wait for a reply.

The human in him chides: it takes a monster to create a monster. But the Dark One dances with glee, because he's just finished preparing the most important element for the curse to end all curses: the one who can cast it. It won't be so long now before he's swept away to the land to which the Blue Star sent Bae.

The old, human Rumplestiltskin grasps tightly to that thought: at least, where Bae is, no one can turn other people into wasps—or snails.


	17. Chapter 17

Seventeen

**A/N. It's time to let the light in. So many fine Rumbelle stories have been written, I can't compete, but I hope this chapter will show the transformation Rumple undergoes when he lets Belle into his life.**

* * *

Now that the curse caster has been created, the Dark One returns with renewed vigor to the work of developing the Curse to End All Curses. It's essential that the curse be finished within Regina's lifetime—which, for any other sorceress, would be centuries, but since it's Regina, with her penchant for backstabbing and bridge-burning, he's not so sure she'll make it to the end of the week.

So Rumplestiltskin redoubles his efforts, scouring the world for the information he needs, laboring in his lab for weeks on end, straining his eyes as he writes and rewrites the blueprint for the entire life of the curse—and when the weight of the work would break him he puts it aside for a while and heals himself by working on the curse's antidote. As two hundred years pass in intense labor, he learns that creating the Curse to End All Curses is a Herculean task, but to capture True Love and make a potion of it is an utter impossibility, particularly for a sorcerer working alone, in secret, and battling his own demons at the same time.

Sometimes, then, when he's exhausted in spirit as well as body, he talks to himself. Or at least, that's how he explains it to the Dark One. In truth, he's reaching out, hoping against all reason—he dares not admit it; he sold his right to ask for help when he stole the Dark One's powers—but the truth of it is, he's seeking the Source.

On the night he completes the formula for the Curse, he drops to his knees in awe and shame. "If I am to be stopped, it must be now," he says aloud. But only the Dark One answers: "Let all the damned praise the name of Rumplestiltskin, murderer of True Love!"

But the Dark One celebrates too soon, for Rumple will not release the formula to Regina until he's found the antidote—not because he has compassion for his victims, but because until the curse is broken he himself will still be imprisoned by it.

Despair sets in: has he wasted two hundred years of effort and hope? The Dark One makes a suggestion: enact the Curse anyway. Let your motivation be like Regina's: punishment against all who made you and Bae suffer. Since you can't have hope, grasp for revenge.

He's all but given up hope when the Source presents him with the greatest of all gifts, a gift that sends him reeling.

* * *

It comes at first as an ordinary summons: a young female voice calling his name. He ignores the call: he's knee-deep in books, digging for all that's been written about True Love. And then, days later, a weak male voice calls him. The magic stirs, stinging his hands, insisting on being used, so with annoyance Rumple kicks over a stack of books and trudges down the winding staircase from his lab to his foyer, and he sends a command to the horse that the caller is riding. The horse takes the bit in his teeth and follows a trail only he can see; his exhausted rider puts up no fight. When, hours later, the travelers arrive at the Dark Castle, Rumple is waiting at the drawbridge.

The rider dismounts; as soon as his feet hit the ground, he collapses. Rumple conjures a bucket of water and douses him. "You are the Dark One?" he sputters, wiping water from his face.

"Of course. What brings you, horseman?"

"Soldier."

Now that he's taking a closer look, Rumple sees the rider is just a boy, not even shaving yet. Rumple softens his tone and lifts the boy to his feet. "What brings you, soldier?"

"A message from the Duke of the Highlands."

"Very well. Proceed."

The lad frowns, struggling to remember the message he's memorized.

"Don't worry about the wording, soldier," Rumple assures him. "Just get to the gist."

"We need your help, Rumplestiltskin! Our villages are falling to the ogres. Can you help us? We're dying!"

Rumple opens his mouth, ready to refuse, but the word _ogres_ strikes a dark chord. With a sigh he nods. "Rest there in my garden a while before you make the long journey back. I will go to your duke."

"Now?" The boy clutches Rumple's jacket. "Will you leave now?"

"Yes, lad, I'll leave now."

Only then does the boy allow himself to faint.

Rumple transports himself into the duke's castle, playing a little prank while he's at it. What he doesn't know is that the prank is on him. In the moments before he reveals his presence to the anxious party awaiting him, he surveys the premises. As the laws of magic require, he must take something if he's to give something, and ending a war is a pretty big thing to give. Clearly, the duke has nothing to offer. His entire duchy is in shambles. Even if he has jewels or gold squirreled away, Rumple has no interest in such ordinary wealth. With a shrug Rumple decides he'll settle for the duke's high-backed chair, which he finds comfortable enough.

Oh, but it's then the Source chooses to offer that gift. The imp's critical gaze falls upon the duke's sole remaining treasure: his daughter. Rumplestiltskin is gobsmacked. He, the centuries-old soul, the Dark One, the Deceiver's right-hand man, has been smacked in the face by love.

He shakes it off and makes his deal. In less than five minutes the Second Ogres War is over and Rumplestiltskin is now and forever, in his heart, a married man. He doesn't realize that yet, and in the eyes of the world—this world—he can never be more to Belle than the monster who stole her and ruined her. But in the ways that matter, in their hearts and in the eyes of True Love, an unbreakable commitment—a marriage vow—is formed the moment he suggests "It's forever, dearie" and she gives her word.

For the time being, however, as he escorts his True Love from her father's castle, he thinks he's walking out with a new housekeeper.

* * *

As he leads her into the Dark Castle, his human side is wracked with doubt: the few times he has allowed another into his life, he has been rendered weak and left broken. Even those who loved him—Bae, Saer, Clotild and Osbert—have abandoned him. This girl he knows nothing about. When he touches her back lightly in the guise of directing her movements, he reads her life force and concludes that her intention is honorable; she _means_ to carry out her end of the agreement; but then so did all those who abandoned him. And now, with the work he's doing, with the magic that lives and vibrates from every stone and every stick in this castle, there's so much more at risk, so much greater danger. He will lose her, he's certain of it, whether to death by accident or an enemy's trickery or. . . or horror when she sees the truth of who he is.

And so, preoccupied and already despairing over a future of yet another heartbreak, he barely notices when the Dark One takes over his interactions with Belle. The craziness surfaces, and already the Dark One is punishing her even before she's had a chance to plot her escape; he pushes her into a dungeon and giggles with glee as magic bolts the door and she reacts—

And she reacts, not with terror or dread, as the Dark One would have it, but with _indignation_. Her angry protest gets through to the human and a tiny new seed is planted, hope plants a seed of doubt on top of the much larger seed of doubt he's always carried in his soul, and trust begins to grow, though it takes nearly a full day before he feels it and another day before he surrenders to it. When he finally releases her from the dungeon, it's rather sheepishly and with the lame excuse of having had to "human-proof" the castle, as one would child-proof a house; that is, to set safety locks on the castle's magic so that she can move freely about. The excuse is half-true: he has done this, but only as an afterthought.

As he leads her back up the narrow staircase to the ground floor, Rumple finds the Dark One is still fully awake and active in his brain. That's right, the Dark One suggests, let her think she is safe, and then when she trusts you, attack. It will be so delicious to see the dismay as well as the fear in her face when you throw her to the cold stone floor and have your way with her.

Leading her upstairs, Rumplestiltskin realizes he has made a very bad bargain. Fighting off the Dark One will now have to become a full-time occupation, leaving him no time to work on the Curse's antidote. When he can do so with dignity, he will twist the terms of their agreement so that he can release her. So that he can be safe from her.

But when she drops the cup and he hears the dread in her voice—her fear of the Dark One's wrath—he wants nothing so much as to reassure her, and he realizes that for him it's too late; she's already in his heart. Later, he comes to realize it's too late for her too: the moment she entered the Dark Castle, she forfeited all standing among her people and became the victim of vicious rumor. She can never go home again.

Still, he could release her into another realm, use his magic to create a comfortable home for her in a safe haven, someplace with sunlight streaming through the windows and sweet aromas in the kitchen and comfortable chairs beside a crackling fireplace, a spinning wheel quietly turning in the corner as she passes through the Great Hall, humming under her breath as she sweeps away the cobwebs. . . someplace like the home she is turning the Dark Castle into. And he stirs from his reverie to find weeks have passed and it's too late to let her go, too late for both of them, for they have blended their lives and found contentment together.

Along with the light she brings color and music into the castle, and he gives her his stories, truth but amplified to entertain her. He becomes more animated in her presence, more a creature of the physical world, and of the moment. Spontaneously he will conjure a playerless orchestra—instruments that play themselves—and after bowing deeply, he will sweep her, broom and all, into a waltz—yes, to give her joy, but also to give himself an excuse to hold her. The magic in his hands retreats when he dances with her, for it can't compete with the magic he's holding in his arms.

For the first time he travels purely for pleasure, not profit, admiring the world through her eyes. With her beside him, he needs nothing. He takes her to the cities for chocolate and concerts; he takes her to the Far East for silk for her dresses; he takes her to the meadows for wildflowers for her hair, to the forests for herbs for her tea, to the mountains so he can rise to love.

Small threats come: her homesickness, his moodiness; her craving for society, his longing for solitude; memories of the past that pull thoughts away from the present. He tests her: does she not miss her family and friends, her fiancé? She answers truthfully, and that reassures him: he will always have the truth from her. She tests him: she pokes holes in his inflated self-importance, she dismantles his protective wall one small stone at a time. He resists sharing his thoughts with her, but he realizes he can't help but share his feelings. It's been so long since he's had anyone he could feel safe with. The human in him rises and drives the Dark One into a tight corner: Belle is safe with him.

He spends less time in his lab, more time answering summons for the helpless and the hapless when there is nothing for him to gain from the interaction except perhaps Belle's praise when he tells her of his good works. The Dark One grumbles: she's robbing you of precious time; her goodness is leaking into you, transforming you into something domestic, sometime tamed, something weak, something _nice_. You may as well call yourself a husband and be done with it. She has you on your knees.

The human in him responds: what better place to be than on my knees, kneeling to love.

It's too late, it's too late.

He tries to see into her future, to assess the damage he's doing to her; when he can't, he comes to know she's already a part of him. And so he spins beside the fire as she drives away the darkness, and he confesses to her at the same time he dances away from her advances. His words share very little, but his face shares everything. She keeps reaching for him; someday, he will not be able to dance away from her any more. When that day comes he will have to offer her another bargain, one she will find poor: she can have the man but she must take the monster too.

And the cruelest trick of all: he will never allow a physical expression of his love. Not because he's a gentleman—far from it, if his lustful dreams are any indication—and not because he fears he will lose control to the Dark One, but he cannot allow love to break his curse and steal him away from Bae. A life apart from society, a life without the passion of a lover's embrace, the joy of children or the comfort of a husband's arms—it's a very poor bargain. So in desperation he releases her, telling himself it's for love of her that he's letting her go, but even as he's saying the words the Dark One nags him: she can never be free; they won't take her back; you've ruined her. It's too late, too late.

It's not a test when he releases her; he truly doesn't expect her to return, but he watches from the highest window anyway. And when he finds he hasn't been abandoned after all—when he sees her strolling up the winding road to his castle—to their home—he throws the Dark One into a spiritual dungeon and mentally drops to his knees to worship Love. He swears in that moment as he dashes recklessly down the stairs to his spinning wheel that he will surrender everything now: he will give her all his memories and all his truth and all his trust. She will heal him and free him, because he has freed her.

He shoves pride and fear into a corner with the Dark One and he presents his naked heart to her, if she'll accept it; he offers it to her with a question: "Why did you come back?" When she answers with a kiss, he allows it, thunderstruck by her power. He is ready to fall, ready to believe that what he's been telling others all along can be true for him as well: Love is the most powerful magic, Love can do anything. Love, not his curse, will bring back Bae, and all the other things his magic has allowed him to do are inconsequential. He will throw it all away; he will trust Love and Love will restore all he has lost.

It all comes down to this: he surrenders and she crows, "Kiss me again. It's working" as though it's a battle and she's won, conquered the monster. Her kiss is a lie. It's not born of Love; it's born of manipulation. She hasn't kissed him because she loves him, darkness and all; she's kissed him because she believes she can change him. Her kiss is a weapon to slay the beast; her love is a sacrifice.

And so he unleashes the Dark One, surrenders not to love but to fear and madness. Later, when the Dark One has exhausted and lies panting in its corner, he assesses what he has done—and what she has done. When he tells her his power means more to him than she does, it's a truth—not the only one, but a truth nonetheless.

It's then that he truly and finally releases her.

* * *

While he is still reeling in his loss—yes, weakened, just as Regina intended—the Evil Queen delivers her news, delighting in Rumplestiltskin's breakdown. Accusations, rejection, humiliation, torture, suicide, and Belle is gone forever. He is driven mad by the images of her suffering, so he focuses on self-directed anger. Blame is simple; blame can be understood and managed. For a time he would destroy himself too, if he could: he attempts it one morning when the sun pouring in through her open windows mocks him. With all the strength of the Dark One behind the thrust, he drives the dagger into his belly—and nothing happens, except the Deceiver laughs.

He knows then he's truly cursed.

Later, when some degree of his humanness has returned, he seeks information. As he asks the question he fears he can't bear the answer, but he owes it to her to know the truth. Each one he asks confirms Regina's story; he is shown Belle's grave, the upturned earth still damp. She is buried beside her mother: "faithful wife," "beloved daughter."

Dagger in hand, he appears in the duke's bedroom with revenge as his intention, but as he stands there in the blackness, the house talks to him, radiating her magic. The memory of her laughter echoes from the walls, staying his hand, and he sheaths the dagger and returns to his castle.

* * *

Long years later, long after he has resumed his deal-making, he sits one evening at his wheel and spins to remember. Regardless of the pain, he now believes in the power of True Love. If he cannot have it for himself, he will have it through another. Snow White, with her uncorrupted heart, will be Love's champion, and her prince will be Love's protector. As Rumplestiltskin watches the spokes of his wheel fade in and out, he is granted a vision: a child will be born who will combine Snow's strength with her husband's loyalty, and that child will break the Curse.

It's fitting, he concludes: a curse created by a desperate father seeking his son will be broken by a desperate mother seeking hers.

A child born of love will break a curse born of fear.

And so he returns to work. He will bottle True Love and dedicate the accomplishment to Belle. For the remainder of his long life he will honor her memory and thank the Source for the wondrous gift of love.


	18. Chapter 18

Eighteen

He devotes his care over the next few years to Snow White. The very same Snow who's been driven out of her home and pursued by a hired assassin will raise True Love's banner when she forgives Regina, and then she will seal Love's victory by bringing the curse breaker into the world. And so Rumple watches her from afar, providing little nudges now and then when she seems ready to wander off her path, and he paves the way for her destined partner to become the hero she will need for him to be, if he is to stand beside her.

This is one of Rumple's better schemes. Quite complicated, really: Snow's charming beloved must be a leader too, because he will rule the kingdom beside her when Regina is overthrown. Like Snow, the charming one must be noble of spirit, but he must also be pure of heart: a very tall order. How a man could be a politician and a fighter, and yet maintain his innocence seems to Rumple to be an impossible task, until late one winter's night inspiration strikes as the imp spins. As the wool passes through Rumple's fingers and is transformed by the wheel into fine but strong thread, so too must Snow and her future husband be transformed. They must be removed from society if they are to discover their true natures. . . . They must be brought to the care of the oldest and wisest guide: Nature.

So Rumple puts his mind to the task of finding a brave, noble soul among the gentlest of nature's sons: shepherds. Rumple adds another prerequisite: the boy must also be a true believer in love, for sweet Snow deserves nothing less. Candidates emerge, but the trick—and this is the part of his scheme that Rumple is so proud of—is to make of that gentle shepherd a prince who can lead a revolution. And so he finds the twin sons of a loving farm couple, and in a clever stroke Rumple turns one of the sons into a prince—but not the son that he intends for Snow. No, he chooses the boy James to be adopted as an infant into the childless home of King George and Queen Nesta, so that Snow's intended can remain on the farm and grow up loved and unspoiled. And then when David has reached adulthood, Rumple arranges for him to replace his brother as prince. Unfortunately, that does mean James must be eliminated, but the Dark One provides that James' death be an honorable one.

Snow too must have her nature retreat if she is to grow independent and confident, yet retain her innocence, and so Rumple gives her a nudge in that direction when the Regina refugee needs a place to hide.

And their union, David and Snow's, must be tested like iron in fire, hard earned so that it will never be taken for granted, and from that struggle faith will be made knowledge.

* * *

When Snow, having reached the limit of her endurance, comes to the sorcerer for relief, he prods her by amplifying and echoing her sentiments back at her. It isn't hard to find the vitriol in himself: "Love makes us sick, haunts our dreams, destroys our days. Love has killed more than any disease."

When she doesn't take the bait and pick up the sword for Love, he realizes he can only bring her back around with something extreme. He gives her a sleeping potion that affects her heart: it will poison all her relationships, and when she sees the wretch she has become she will appreciate all that Love can do for her. For payment, he takes a strand of her hair.

But Snow surprises him. Just as he did when the pain of Belle's loss was too big to bear, she oversimplifies her emotions, rolling them up into blame, and she decides, as he did, she must kill the one responsible for her loss: so she comes to him once again for aid, but aid in killing Regina.

He is spinning when she and the dwarf arrive. She wants a weapon and advice; he gives her a way back to her prince, although he doesn't identify it as such. "An arrow fired from this bow will get you exactly what you need."

And then her prince arrives in pursuit of her and he directs the boy for the price of a cloak. Rumple has no doubt the arrow will do its duty—it is, after all, one of a set he acquired in a trade with Cupid. Soon enough, Snow will remember who she is and what David means to her.

Meanwhile, Rumple gloats, for he now has the final ingredient he needs to bottle True Love. His excitement can't be contained; if only Belle were here to share in the victory, his joy would be complete. Two centuries of work have come to fruition and now his search for Bae can begin, just as soon as the necessary intervening unpleasantness passes.

He gathers together all the trinkets he's collected over the centuries, all the precious possessions that he's either traded for or received as stolen from Jiminy and other petty thieves. He counts and catalogs them, then deposits in each just an ounce of magic. He writes into the Curse instructions that these objects are to be placed in his custody in the Land without Magic. When the curse breaks, the magic within them will return the objects to their rightful owners, and then when their memories of Fairytale Land return, they can cling to something from the old world and not feel so homesick.

* * *

It's time now for him do the summoning, for once. He sends an invitation by crow, and Regina arrives in quick time. She's all eagerness and impatience until he lays out all the details of the Curse—and then for the first time he perceives a hint of the coward in her.

"Are you saying I will lose my magic?"

"Completely and permanently. You are casting a curse the likes of which no world has ever seen. Such immense destruction requires a payment in kind. All of us will pay—from the Blue Star to the newest fairy, from the lowliest stable boy to the mightiest mage," he bows slightly to indicate he means himself, and he cocks an eyebrow as he waits for her reaction to his oblique reference to Daniel. When her lips tighten, he suspects he's won her back. He cinches the deal. "We all will pay, yes, even you, with the loss of your magic and your kingdom and a significant portion of your wealth, but you will still have luxury and position, and you will still control your subjects." He pauses for effect. "And most importantly, not a one of those subjects will ever love again—least of all, Snow White and her prince."

He giggles when she runs her tongue over her lips, picturing the scene. She holds out her hand. "Give me."

Oh, but when she's home in her boudoir, sitting before her dressing mirror and holding the formula for the curse in two hands—for it's a very complicated, lengthy formula—he watches her face change from a sort of revenge-lust to doubt. From her ceiling, where he has transformed himself into a spider, he watches her eyes narrow, her lips tighten, her shoulders droop, and he knows he's lost her again. She rolls up the scroll and tucks it into a jewelry box, which she seals with magic. She won't go through with the curse: the price is too high, even for her.

He really shouldn't blame her: the price is too high for him too.

* * *

A sleeping curse. He shakes his head in disgust when he hears of it. Did Regina learn nothing from his two years of tutelage? It's time now for Charming to raise the stakes: to claim his bride and overthrow the Evil Queen and the not-so-good King, and by so doing, bring peace and prosperity to Fairytale Land and deliver their daughter the savior—and provoke Regina into enacting the Curse.

It's such a complicated plan. If a single thread of it breaks, the wheel will spin fruitlessly until it drifts to a halt. But Rumple oversees the whole thing, omitting not a detail, down to the gold thread with which he stitches the suit in which Charming will propose to Snow. A hero's quest is the price Rumple charges in return for the magic that brings Charming to Snow, so that when the boy gallops off to find his bride, he remembers who he was born to be: a dragon-fighter, worthy of a courageous princess.

And the greatest achievement of all: Rumplestiltskin and the prince have ensured that True Love will survive the Curse and make the transition to the Land without Magic.

Of course, the prince doesn't know that yet.

* * *

As the revolution outside rages, Rumplestiltskin spins quietly in his castle. He should be happy, and he is: all his work has been rewarded, and soon—by a mage's measure, for by the human calendar he has another 33 years to wait—he will stand before Bae at last. No, he will kneel before Bae and surrender the dagger, thus relinquishing forever his pursuit of power, and he will beg forgiveness. He regrets only that Belle will not be with him in that moment so that he could ask her forgiveness too.

Well, in truth, he regrets too the suffering his Curse will cause the innocents. . . the miserable life that Regina's borne because of his plans. . . . the damage left behind in Cora's wake because he hadn't the fortitude to stop her.

As he catalogs his crimes, he spins faster, begging the wheel to take his memories. He begins talking to himself; he begins pulling away from the human within him. He smashes his wheel against the fireplace. As he becomes more imp, his regret recedes and his madness builds until he's walking the walls and throwing lightning at the trees and fireballs at his—at Belle's—garden and tossing furniture from towers. He shrieks from the mountain top where he celebrated his love and when no voice, not even his own, answers with words of comfort, he throws himself off the peak.

And yet he doesn't die. He stands and brushes the dust from his dragonskin coat. In another moment he will call for the Morning Star and hand over his soul. But then he remembers Hell's cage, with its fairy dust lining that blocked his magic. . . that gave him the strength to refuse the Deceiver.

Before the madness takes him completely, he kidnaps one of Snow's bluebirds and plants a message for Charming: the Dark One must be caged and only a fairy-dust mine will hold him.

Still, Charming is noble and just, and a bit of a bond has formed between him and Rumple. The prince must be pushed into hate.

So Rumplestiltskin threatens to confiscate a baby. It's the most shocking and horrible thing he can think of, so cruel even Snow can't forgive it, and it works. In a flash Rumple is bound, jostled, prodded, hustled off to a prison cell built into a fairy-dust mine, where the guards laugh at him and throw stones to antagonize him and slop buckets to humiliate him. When they bring him water to drink it's brackish; when they bring him food to eat it's crawling with maggots. The greatest insult of all is that Charming and Snow apparently have forgotten he exists. After all I've done for you, the Dark One screams. You deserve the future Regina's planning for you.

Starved, beaten, humiliated, the human in him retreats to a small corner of his brain and the Dark One takes possession, maddened even further because he can do nothing but hang from the ceiling and shake the bars.

Late at night, when the guards are gone and the torches have burnt out, when he lies on stone and tries to sleep, the Dark One taunts Rumplestiltskin: _All magic comes with a price, dearie! Looks like someone's just paid._


	19. Chapter 19

Nineteen

He's been thinking a lot these days about what he'll lose.

The fact of the matter is, he just doesn't know what exactly will happen during and after the Curse. Since he's invented something that he can't try out beforehand, he has only theory to go on, just assumptions that are based upon observations of how of the elements work alone and in various combinations, but he hasn't been able to test them all together. He did consider dropping in on one of the less-populated realms and performing experiments there; however, if the trial Curse really did take him to a land without magic, he wouldn't be able to return to Fairytale Land. No, tests were not possible: he'd just have to wait and see with everyone else if the Curse works—and what it does.

He's decided that the most dramatic parts of his life—the morning Bae was born, the afternoon Belle left, the night he killed the Dark One—can't be taken from him; those memories will always be stored deep in his brain, and when the fog of the Curse lifts—_if_ the fog of the Curse lifts—those memories will emerge first, fighting their way to the top, as the biggest and strongest of the litter always will. But what about the quieter memories? Gamel and Goda holding hands as they chat with him in their parlor—will he remember that? The neighbor setting a book in his lap for the first time. Saer setting his hands on the wheel. Samer carrying him over his shoulder like a sack of oats on the night he got drunk. Clotild carrying in Bae's first birthday cake. Bae at age two, age three, age four sitting at his feet as he spins. Bae at age five trying to ride the bellwether like a horse and getting bit for it. Osbert running through the cornfield to greet him. Belle tilting her head back and humming when she tastes chocolate for the first time, in the marketplace at Tirellan. Belle resting her head against his shoulder as she reads her novels and he studies his chemistry books. The infant Regina accepting the bottle he conjured. The little Snow White in all her royal finery splashing in the reflecting pool.

If his hypothesis is correct, all of these memories will submerge like gold pieces in dark water. If his hypothesis is correct, when the daughter of Snow and Charming breaks the Curse to End All Curses, the water will recede and the gold pieces will sparkle in the sand, just waiting for him to pick them up one by one and carry them again. If his hypothesis is correct, after the savior has done her work, Rumplestiltskin will do his, bringing magic into a world devoid of it, and the magic, because it's True Love's magic, will lead him to Bae, just as faithfully as Ruth's ring led Charming to Snow.

But if the hypothesis is incorrect—if any one aspect of the formula is off by so much as the weight of a dragonfly's wing—or if the execution is flawed, if Regina's timing is off or if she proceeds halfway and then panics and tries to reverse the spell—he and she and Snow and Charming and all the denizens of this world will be stuck in a timeless limbo, never to reclaim their lives, never to retrieve their love. Their only salvation will be that they won't remember.

Or will they? In half-sleep will a memory leak through? In passing a loved one on the street, will a smile or gesture or turn of phrase suddenly seem eerily familiar? Will a note of music or a scent remind them of home?

Rumplestiltskin doesn't know which to pray for: that none of them will remember until everyone remembers, or that some will and the memory will enable them find each other.

In any case, Regina is destined for disappointment, and that can only mean more suffering ahead for everyone. It can only mean a war.

If he has to, he wonders, can he bring himself to kill her?

In his prison, which is always dark and damp and cold, he has nothing but time to think. In his physically fragile state, deprived of food and adequate rest, he is prone to wild imaginings. In his mentally fragile state, he unleashes the Dark One. It's the only way he can stay sane right now.

* * *

Regina comes. It's on; she's reclaimed the formula and is ready, heart and body and soul, completely ready to enact it, no matter the cost of it, no matter the uncertainty of it. He believes her and he instructs her. But first he has to slow her down, because this thing requires intricate planning; every detail must be completed. She hasn't the patience for it—he knew that all along, and really, that's why she's the one to carry out the Curse, because she _won't_ take the time to think it through completely. Even if she had the patience, she just doesn't care; she can't see why it matters where the dragon will be confined or who runs the corner store. So she hands over most of the planning to him, leaving for herself—after he teaches her—the plans for the five people whose lives most interest her: herself, Snow, Charming, Jefferson and Rumplestiltskin. These plans she labors over, for months, and although she will accept a gentle nudge, for the most part, once she's solidified her plans, she will not be moved from them.

She doesn't mind sharing them, however; she expects praise. "As agreed," she crows, "you will be rich, the richest man in the village; you will be comfortable, living in the largest house—yes, yes," she adds impatiently when he tries to interrupt—"surrounded by all that worthless junk you call your treasure. And best of all, you will be powerful; everyone in the village will fear you."

He finds it interesting that she equates power and fear. She sees no other pairing. It's one of the reasons why Snow will defeat her, for Snow will rule by love.

Ah, but love and secrecy do not mix, so Rumplestiltskin will settle for fear. Until he's found Bae, he must keep his personal plans private so that Regina can't destroy them—or worse, destroy Bae. Fortunately for him, no one, not even those he's had repeated dealings with, knows about Bae. In fact, no one's ever asked. People are curious only about his magic; people care only about his usefulness to them. Which is perhaps best: the more that the public knows about a public figure, the more endangered that figure becomes.

She twinkles as she leans confidentially against the bars of his cell. "Would you like to know your new name?"

"Certainly, Your Majesty."

"It's Gold—Mr. Gold." She claps her hands and laughs. "Don't you love it? Everyone who speaks to you will be reminded how rich you are. You see? I remembered what you said about the power of names. And guess what your first name will be?"

He guesses. "Rumplestiltskin?"

"No! You can guess again—you can guess all day long but you'll never get it."

"Ah. You may as well tell me, then, so we can get back to work."

"You don't have one! That way, no one can speak to you in a familiar way. You'll always be addressed formally. Power in the name—power in the absence of the name!"

"Very clever, Your Majesty. Shall we return to our discussion of where to place the school?"

So he accepts Regina's plans for him—they won't matter in the long run anyway. Once the savior comes, he won't be this Mr. Gold any more, this fake character she's created in her storybook with its empty pages. He will be Rumplestiltskin—_uncursed_ Rumplestiltskin—master of magic; Rumplestiltskin, father of Baelfire.

Won't he?

* * *

The plans are finished. The preparations are finished. After a false start, Regina has made the ultimate sacrifice and now can cast the Curse. She gives a timeframe of three days, because she wants those days to memorize the details of her royal life, so that she won't lose them when she passes into the new world, and because she wants those days to memorialize her father.

In three days, the Dark One will die. Rumplestiltskin has done the impossible: he's created a way to kill the possessor without killing the possessed. He's broken, for all time, the Dark curse, robbed the Deceiver of a favorite weapon against mankind. As he lies on stone and tries to rest, Rumplestiltskin imagines what it will feel like to be free of the Dark One, to never again have that voice cackling, taunting, screaming in his head. To never again be driven to smash furniture and walk on walls and giggle maniacally.

To not have the Dark One to blame for Rumplestiltskin's evil acts and cruel thoughts.

He wonders if Mr. Gold will be out of the Deceiver's reach. Will Estrilda and Regina too be free? All those cursed with magic in this world, from the lowest trick turner to the Morning Star himself and the Blue Star, will their free will be restored?

Or will True Love's magic turn them into yet something else, not human but not imp or fairy or witch or demon?

This isn't like him. Rumplestiltskin is a scientist, not a gambler, but he'll take the leap of faith because it's the only way. If he's wrong, perhaps the consequence will be death, and that can be no worse than an eternity trapped in the Darkness, without Bae.

In the final hours he turns the Dark One loose and sends the human into a corner of his mind, where it can't see what's out there, can't imagine what's coming. The last lucid thought Rumplestiltskin has is a memory: "Do the brave thing and bravery will follow."

"_Papa, please! It's the only way we can be together. Don't break our deal!"_


	20. Chapter 20

Twenty

He's standing behind the display counter that faces the entrance. He leans on his hands, taking the weight off his bad knee, the one that aches in cold weather or gives out suddenly when he's walked a mile too many.

He's a pawnshop owner and an antiques dealer. People come to him; he doesn't have to go to them (except on rent day, and that's only because watching them squirm makes him chuckle). He might make a sale or a purchase today; he might not. It won't worry him either way. The business is just a front—but he's not sure what it's covering up. When he comes into work at ten o'clock six mornings a week, it's just a way to pass the time while he waits for what he's really meant to do. Just don't ask him what.

He tries to be patient. It's not so hard when every day's pretty much the same as the one before: you get caught in the rhythm and lose track of time. Sometimes, though—long summer days especially—he catches himself watching from his window, waiting for someone. He can't name that person, but he'll know her when he sees her. Or maybe it's a him; Gold can't be sure.

* * *

Mr. Gold doesn't like himself very much. It's not a self-esteem issue; none of that "I'm OK, you're OK" crap will change his opinion. He's proud of what he's accomplished: he has money and social standing in his community, both of which he's worked hard to earn and keep; he's a well-spoken, cultured and educated man (just don't ask him which college he attended; it's been so long ago he doesn't remember), mature but not yet old; he takes care of his belongings and himself; he's reasonably good-looking and always well dressed; he's in good health and fine shape—apart from the bad knee, which he's had all his life, more or less—for a man of—well, however many years. When he wants something done, he doesn't have to raise his voice; his money does his yelling for him. Everyone, from the mayor and the sheriff on down to the handyman, tenses up a little when they see him coming, and that's how he likes it: keeps them on their toes, enables him to get things done.

Still, he doesn't like himself all that much. Maybe there's no particular reason. Or maybe it's just a reflection of how other people feel about him.

He thinks if he loosened up a bit, maybe wore jeans (shudder) on his days off, maybe did some volunteer work or joined a bowling league, he'd make a friend or two and then he'd be less lonely. Maybe he ought to, well, ask one of Storybrooke's unmarried ladies out to dinner sometime. Storybrooke has no shortage of eligible ladies. Except, if he had a companion, that person would expect a certain level of access, wouldn't they: access to information beyond the formal polite exchanges ("How are you today?" "Lovely weather, don't you think?"). They'd expect to be told things, things he'd rather not—or can't—share.

No, people are too risky. Maybe he should get a pet. Except pets would expect to be petted. . . .

They think they're talking behind his back when they call him a money-grubbing, heartless bastard or a lying, cheating son of a bitch. Of course he hears them. Even if he didn't, Regina would make sure to report it all to him. The less the town likes him, the more the mayor likes it. Sometimes he likes it too; certainly, it's part of the image he strives for.

Yeah, but what if he could just pick up the phone and call someone and say, "You want to do something tonight?" and it wouldn't matter what, just that they were together? What if, right at this minute, a neighbor knocked on his door and invited him to a backyard barbeque? What if he could reach down right now and pick up a small child and swing him into his lap for a cuddle? What if, right this minute, a soft feminine voice called to him from the kitchen, "What would you like for supper, sweetheart" or called to him from the bedroom, "Come to bed, darling"?

He sees them, his neighbors and business associates, struggling with their relationships. Not one of them has found happiness, only brief moments of it. Like a firefly trapped in a jar, their happiness glows brightly for just a few moments before burning out. They keep trying anyway. Why? Most of the time he appreciates his life, even-keeled by comparison with theirs. Just once in a while, though. . . .

* * *

Mr. Gold has a secret. All right, he has quite a few of them, but this one unsettles him. He's in his shop and it's a typical day, chilly, but that's to be expected for April. _April is the cruelest month_—that poet must have lived in Maine. He's had only one customer since he opened at ten, but that's typical too; what his sales lack in volume, they make up for in price, since he deals in antiques and other hard-to-find objects. Besides, 63.2% of his income is derived from his rental properties and his investments.

So as he always does on a slow morning, he's read the _Wall Street Journal _thoroughly, leaning on the counter near the cash register, his weight on his left hip to take the pressure off his bad knee. At noon, as he always does, he repairs to the workshop and unpacks his lunch—a roast beef sandwich, pickles and cucumber salad; he makes it a point to eat heartily at lunch but lightly at dinner, since he at his age he's prone to late-night heartburn. He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down to eat in peace and to think about his secret.

Here's the thing: Every time someone opens the door to his shop and the little bell above the door tinkles, he jumps out of his skin. Not so the customer can see it, of course, but his knees knock and his hands jitter. Every damn time. And that's not all: each morning when the school bell or the church bell rings, he jumps. And most evenings at 6:15 p.m. when he enters Granny's for his usual light dinner—two boiled eggs, a garden salad and the _soup du jour_—he jumps as soon as that bell above the door jingles.

He doesn't get it. Other unexpected sounds—a car horn, a phone ringing, a knock on the door—don't rattle him at all, just bells, bells of all kinds in all kinds of places. It's been like this as long as he can remember. It embarrasses him. A man of his age. A man who can stare down someone the size of Moe French or a raging mayor or a wild wolf in the woods, scared of bells. No, not scared, just unsettled.

Maybe it's a phobia derived from some childhood trauma he can't remember. Maybe he should talk to Hopper about it. Come to think of it, he can't remember much of anything from his childhood, so what good could Hopper do?

Ah well, Gold is rich. He's entitled to his eccentricities. He pours a spoonful of honey into his coffee and splices a lemon wedge to slip on the edge of the cup.

* * *

Gold has another secret. He doesn't know his own first name.

He realized that this morning as he was filing lease forms. He keeps them in a locked cabinet in the office at home; he files them in order of expiration date, with a cross-reference list by name and a second cross-reference by address. As he filed, he examined each lease for completeness, and that's when he noticed: everyone else signs with a complete name—Mary Margaret Blanchard, Kathryn Nolan, Samuel Clark—but he always signs "Mr. Gold," every damn time. So he sifted through his mail: "Mr. Gold, 23 Shepherd's Way, Storybrooke, Maine." Then he examined his driver's license—you can't hide your name from the Department of Motor Vehicles, can you? But he did, and he can't remember how, can't even remember waiting in line at the DMV or taking the bloody test. His business cards, the phone book and his bank checks all list him as "Mr. Gold."

Why hadn't he noticed that before? Worse, why can't he remember his first name?

* * *

Gold has another secret. This is the biggest of them all. This one takes not only the cake but the ice cream too. It's so unnerving that for the first time in ages, probably ever, he didn't open the shop this morning. He locked the door and hurried home and now he's shut up in his office, sitting in his leather chair behind his mahogany desk.

He'd gone to work, he'd poured his cup of coffee with lemon, he'd opened the _Wall Street Journal_, he'd turned on the lights and unlocked the door and flipped over the "Open" sign, everything absolutely normal, so normal he slept-walked through the motions. He began to arrange some merchandise on the shelves, angling the jewelry so it would catch the light, tucking the price tags under so they wouldn't be so noticeable. He was crouching to reach the bottom shelf of a display cabinet when his cane slipped on the freshly waxed floor and he fell, landing with his bad leg tucked under him, his knee striking the tile, his full weight crushing the leg. The cane skittered and rolled under the cabinet.

After he'd run through every curse word in the dictionary and coined a few—the cursing helped to ease the pain—he eased back on his haunches and pulled his leg out from under him. When the throbbing stopped, he dared to try to stand, for which he required his cane—unattainable under that display case. Utterly frustrated, he demanded of the cane, "Get over here, damn you."

And the cane obeyed.

It rolled out from under the case and jumped into his hand.

Stunned, he sat there gaping at the cane until the bell above his door jangled and Marco entered. "Mr. Gold?" He skittered around the display case. "Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?"

"No, no, I'm all right," Gold snapped. Then he calmed himself. "Only my pride is wounded."

"It's happened to me too," Marco assured him, helping him to stand. The old man was gentleman enough to say no more about it, once he saw that Gold could stand steadily. Gracefully, he changed the subject and inquired about an item in the window that had caught his eye: a pair of square reading glasses. Gold retrieved the item from the window and presented it to Marco for his inspection—but as soon as he touched the spectacles his hand vibrated. The vibration quit as soon as Marco took the eyeglasses, and resumed as soon as Marco returned them and fished into his wallet for cash. Gold rang up the purchase, placed the spectacles in a small bag, and presented the bag to Marco—then watched closely for any sign from Marco that something odd had happened. Marco bade him good morning and left without batting an eye.

Gold stared at his hand. Maybe he was developing some sort of condition. . . an allergy to eyeglasses? He leaned against his counter to think about it. His knee burned and his leg still throbbed.

The phone rang—the phone all the way in the workroom. Gold started for it, but a stabbing pain shot up his leg and he changed his mind. "Answer yourself, damn you."

The phone rang once more, then stopped ringing—and then Gold decided he was hearing things now too, he had to be going crazy, because he distinctly heard his own voice say crisply, "Gold's Pawnshop. Mr. Gold speaking. How may I help you?"

Gold dropped his cane again and choked.

The voice in the backroom continued, "Yes, I have just the thing. I'll be open until 5 o'clock. Thank you for calling."

Gold shook his head furiously to clear it and limped as fast as he could into the back room. An answering machine—that was the only thing that made sense—an answering machine. Of course, there was no answering machine. Never had been.

He stumbled and clutched at his desk, where the phone sat staring back at him, silently. He wished he hadn't dropped his cane; he really needed the comfort of it right now.

The damn cane flew in from the front room and landed in his right hand with a smack.

That's when Gold went home.

Now he's sitting in his office, his comfortable office, with its solid furniture and its file cabinets and typewriter and ledgers and calendar and blotter. There's even a potted rubber tree in the corner. Everything an office should be, and being here makes him feel relaxed and in charge. Usually. But not today.

He stares at the ballpoint lying on the desk. It's behaving just as a ballpoint should—until he says, "Into my hand." It leaps into his hand. He drops it. He stares at one of his ledgers. "Open to the last page." The book lifts its cover, page after page rises and falls over, until the book lies open to the last page.

His mouth has gone dry.

He stares at the rubber tree. "Become a rose bush." The tree shudders, moves, rises by its roots and changes into a rose bush.

He's sick. He's very very sick. He runs as fast as his cane and bum leg allow to the ground-floor bathroom, where he scarfs down asprin. Just to be on the safe side, he hurries into the kitchen for a tumbler of scotch, which he carries to his living room. He's not sure he can make it up the stairs to bed, so he stretches out on the leather couch (imported from Italy; he remembers that but can't remember where he bought it) and sips the scotch and waits for this sick dream or hallucination to end.

It's times like this he wishes he had a wife to fuss over him. Or at least a friend to assure him he's not losing his grip on reality.

When he awakens late that afternoon, his shirt is wet: he's spilled scotch on it. His head and knee throb. He stares at the empty tumbler lying on the floor and he has to know, so he commands it to rise.

The tumbler doesn't budge an inch.

He stares at his shirt and demands that it dry itself. The shirt stays damp.

He chuckles. He's getting the flu, that's it. He'll drop in on Whale tomorrow, but for now he's going to bed and get some proper rest. He struggles to his feet and walks through the living room toward the winding staircase. . . past his office, where the door's open and he has to peek in. . .

Where he has a rose bush instead of a rubber tree.

* * *

He doesn't go to the doctor in the morning. He goes to work. Damn it, he's going to push and shove his way back into reality. Do the normal thing and bravery will follow.

No, wait, that's not the way the saying goes.

He returns to his shop, opens at his normal time, sips coffee with lemon while he studies the _WSJ_ and waits for a customer. When he finishes with the newspaper he tidies the shop, though there's really nothing to tidy, since he was closed yesterday. He dusts the mobile hanging from the ceiling, the one whose glass unicorns sparkle in the morning sun and cast rainbows on the wall in the afternoon. He enjoys that mobile and will be sorry to see it go when someone finally meets the ridiculous price he's attached to it. He sets aside his feather duster and lifts one of the unicorns, admiring the seamless craftwork. Beautiful.

And his hand, the one that's touching the unicorn, tingles. _Burns_. Not painfully, but insistently, as if the nerves are trying to get his attention. He sets the unicorn free and resumes his cleaning.

An hour later, his hand's still burning. He tries washing it in water as cold as he can stand. It still burns. He's going to have to get tested; he has some neuropathy, for sure.

An hour later, he can't deny it. He points a finger at his feather duster and orders it to jig across the counter. The duster rises on the points of its feathers and dances, spins when it reaches the edge of the counter and jigs back to its original position, where it lies down and—goes back to sleep or whatever inanimate objects do when they're not dancing.

By mid-afternoon he's had half the objects in his store do some stunt or other. Then he decides he'd better knock that off before the bell above his door tinkles and someone catches him doing—whatever it is he's doing. So he goes into the backroom and does it some more, until he's giggling uncontrollably, and then he realizes he'd better go home and back to bed before he takes a swan dive off the reality cliff.

At home, every wish is his furniture's demand. But then at about five o'clock his hand stops tingling and just as quickly as it happened, it's over. When he points now, he's just pointing. None of his possessions will respond to him.

He sits down on his leather couch from Italy and sighs.

He experiments until he thinks he has it figured out, the how of it, not the why. Certain of the objects in his shop and his house—not the majority, just certain ones—cause his hands to tingle when he touches them, and for a few hours after that, he can. . . well, do things to things. Not huge things; he's tried changing his Cadillac into a Maserati and nothing happened, nor could he make his house spin on its foundation. But little things, he can make happen. He has to touch one of the special objects first, though; the electromagnetism or whatever in his hands won't last long.

After making this discovery, he immediately updates the price tags on those special items, adding a nice round zero after the original numbers. The price tag's just for show anyway; he won't sell these items. And it's not just because of what they seem to do to him; it's because of what they might do to other people, especially certain other people named Regina Mills.

Mr. Gold is just full of secrets.


	21. Chapter 21

Twenty-One

Gold has to know, so he drops by Marco's shop one evening after work. He finds the craftsman at his worktable, measuring a block of wood. Handily enough, Marco is wearing the square eyeglasses. "Good evening, Marco."

The craftsman snaps his head up and drops his pencil. "Oh, good evening, Mr. Gold. What can I do for you?" He's quite surprised; Gold never comes out to this part of town.

"Just wondering how those spectacles are working out. I see you're using them for their original purpose, rather than as a curio."

"I needed something for the close work, you know?"

"Are they comfortable for you? Since they weren't prescribed for you, I wonder if it's wise for you to use them as eyeglasses."

"They are comfortable, thank you. It's as if they were made for me: I see perfectly with them."

"No headaches then? No—" He doesn't know how to ask this without tipping his hand. "No tingling in the hands? I, uh, heard that can be a problem associated with, uh, optical nerve damage."

Marco tilts his head. "I am happy with my purchase, Mr. Gold, thank you."

Gold shifts his feet. "Well, then, that's fine. Good evening, Marco."

Marco remains puzzled. "Good evening, Mr. Gold."

* * *

So he tests others. Not everyone, but certain shop visitors who show particular interest in an object that he's found to be special—the unicorn mobile, the swords, the oil lamp; he's now cataloged seventy-three special items—he encourages these visitors to handle the object. He watches them for a reaction, but while many seem fascinated, one might even say enchanted, by the object, no one exhibits any of the symptoms he's experienced, and certainly no one returns to report self-answering telephones or flying pens.

Two months into his discovery, he makes a decision to end all experiments. Either he's delusional or he's tinkering with something he doesn't understand; whichever is true, it's best left alone.

Just once in a while, though, when he's alone and tired or his knee aches, he. . . dabbles.

He never sells any of the special objects. Even though there seems to be no danger of any of the objects infecting a buyer the way he's been infected, he senses that something's amiss: either it's the wrong time or the wrong buyer. It's bad business, he realizes: the seventy-three items take up quite a bit of shelf space, but he allows himself this, writing it off as another of his eccentricities.

* * *

A brisk wind doesn't deter the trick-or-treaters. Gold passes clusters of them as he walks home at 6 p.m., pint-sized witches and devils and princesses and fairies, all shepherded by parents who wait patiently on lawns while their charges ring doorbells and hold bags open to be filled with candy or gum or oranges (but never apples, because parents believe the urban legends). Gold walks slowly to avoid being bumped into and to eavesdrop as they tell their riddles and giggle when the grownups fail to guess the correct answer.

None of these children will dash up to the door of the big salmon-colored (not pink; he firmly corrects that misconception when it arises) Victorian on Shepherd's Way. The old man who lives there eats children, the urban legends say. Parents add under their breath, he eats other people's bank accounts too.

Just as well. If any of these kids did come to his door, Gold would sooner give them a piece of advice than a piece of candy. Gold has no respect for Halloween traditions. The idea that surrendering candy will keep the evil spirits away is such an oversimplification, anyway. And no self-respecting witch would wear a pointed hat.

* * *

Thanksgiving is the worst of the holidays. At least at Christmas he can keep his shop open—he'll always get some last-minute business. But during the whole week of Thanksgiving Storybook shuts down, rushes home in the five o'clock darkness and cranks up the thermostat and huddles in wool sweaters around the dinner table. Even Granny's is closed, so on the night before the holiday Gold stops in at Clark's and buys groceries to tide him over until Monday.

The snow hasn't arrived yet, so Gold drops his grocery bag into the back seat of his Caddy, along with a bottle of something from the liquor store, and he retreats to his second home, the one few people know about, a sturdy, spacious cabin in the western woods. It's far from rustic, with its indoor plumbing, central HVAC, full kitchen and two bedrooms. He's spared no expense on it, since he lives here some weekends when he needs to think. It's here he indulges in a secret pastime: fishing.

The cabin holds two other Gold secrets, in the bedrooms. Nothing sordid, just things he prefers to remain undisclosed. One of the secrets is that in the closet of the smaller bedroom toys are stored: sports equipment, model cars, a train set, a chemistry kit, board games, all in sealed boxes. Also in that closet hang clothes: t-shirts, jeans, hoodies, sweatshirts, all in boys' size 12, all with the price tags still attached. Gold remembers buying all these items on an impulse shopping spree, but he can't say why.

The other secret is in the master bedroom. There's the usual furniture: a dresser and a bed. But most of the space is taken up by a pair of antiques: a spinning wheel and a vertical loom. A basket of wool waits beside the wheel.

They came with the property. Gold has no use for them. He supposes he'll sell them—they're in magnificent condition for their age. Not just yet, though; he likes them where they are.

On Thanksgiving a snowstorm prevents him from fishing. He prepares his dinner: a Cornish game hen, a baked potato, apple pie and coffee with lemon. While it's in the oven he wanders the cottage looking for something to do. He's read all the books here; he turns on the radio but it's Christmas music. He wanders into the master bedroom and lies on the bed a while. He really should get a girlfriend for days like this. He rolls over and his gaze falls on the spinning wheel. He gets up and gives the big creaky wheel a turn. He's reminding himself to research its value when his hands start to tingle.

And before he realizes what's up he's taken a pair of big metal combs from the basket and he sets a clump of wool on one of the combs and he's—he doesn't know what he's doing or why. He's set the clump onto one of the combs and he's dragging the second comb through the clump. His brain doesn't process it, but his hands, still tingling, act independently. His body relaxes into the work and he catches himself humming along with "Silver Bells."

A little bell dings and he jerks out of his reverie. He sets the combs aside and returns to the kitchen to take his game hen out of the oven. He lays out his dinner, but as he slices into the hen he's still half-dazed and his hands are burning and when he thinks about what he was just doing, the work that he has no name for, those big metal combs come flying out of the bedroom and land in his apple pie.

* * *

Years go by; who knows how many? Thanksgivings, Christmases, Fourths of July: decorations go up, decorations come down. The days change but the people don't. No marriages, no births, no deaths, no graduations, no promotions. Neither the gray in Gold's hair nor his waistline spreads. His house is still salmon and he still drives a Caddy. Nobody changes.

Except the boy.

Other kids run or bike or skate past Gold's shop on the way to school. The mayor's son trudges. As fall clamps its hold on Maine, the boy's steps grow slower and slower. Gold watches him: in a small way, Gold is responsible for him, because in his seldom-used capacity as an attorney, he arranged for Mayor Mills to adopt Henry when the boy was three weeks old. With each passing year, Henry's grown more and more serious until he's now downright grim.

_With each passing year, Henry's grown_. . . .Something about that bothers Gold. He remembers delivering the infant to Regina. He remembers teaching the mayor how to change a diaper. He remembers watching the nanny pushing the stroller in the park. He remembers the boy's first teddy bear, first tricycle, first bicycle, all gifts from the pawnshop. And that's the problem. Gold remembers Henry's grown.

No other kid in Storybrooke has. The same kids who were in diapers last year are in diapers this year. The same faces pass his window, biking and skating and trudging to school, year after year, never changing. No one says anything about it.

But one afternoon something begins to change. The teacher Mary Margaret Blanchard is strolling past his shop, as she does every weekday, moving from the school to the apartment she rents from him. He often watches her as she passes his window: there's a gentleness to her manner that makes her stand out. The few times he's spoken to her, he's perceived a rare innocence in her: it's not naiveté or ignorance, but a _chosen_ innocence. He, in his jaded old age, is fascinated by it, compelled to touch it, as though he could draw a beam of it to himself and heal his own shriveled soul.

Of course, he has nothing that she wants, so they have little reason to speak. But today is different. As she strolls past his window, swinging her overstuffed tote bag and smiling greetings at other passersby, his hands tingle and a thought jolts him: he must speak to her. He doesn't move from his place at the counter, doesn't call out to her—she wouldn't hear him anyway—but she suddenly stops, her mouth falling open, looks around, then glances back over her shoulder through his window. She blinks, puzzled. He smiles at her, and in she sails. When the bell above his door tinkles, he jumps imperceptibly.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Blanchard," he welcomes her, the greeting genuine. "On your way home, I see. Lovely fall day, is it not?"

"It is," she swallows, collecting her thoughts. "Yes. Lovely day. I, uh, I just had an impulse to. . ." She glances around the shop.

"Please feel free to browse all you like. Impulses are a shopkeeper's best marketing tool." He's smiling and feeling rather silly about it, but something about her scrapes the barnacles off his heart and makes him want to raise the sails of niceness.

As soon as that metaphor occurs to him, he wants to gag. He clears his throat and reminds himself who he is. But as Mary Margaret wanders the store, peering into the display counters, tilting her head up to see the bicycle and the canoe and other things he's hung from the ceiling, Gold's hands are still tingling. He glances down to determine the cause and jerks back when he finds it: his hands had been resting atop a large leather-bound book, its cover decorated with a title in ornate gold letters.

Mary Margaret is pulled to the unicorn mobile. The afternoon sun lights up the glass ornaments and when she touches one, delicately, with just the edge of a finger, a rainbow prisms through it. Her eyes enlarge and her lips part. She stands transfixed for several minutes and he doesn't break her concentration. When finally she sighs deeply and retracts her finger from the ornament, she offers a stumbling apology.

"I understand, Ms. Blanchard; it's a very special piece, that mobile."

She's not quite ready to break away. "Where did it come from, Mr. Gold?"

"Oh, I seem to have had it forever. I'm sure I have something of its history in my records; if you like—"

"That's all right. I'm sure it's way more than my budget could take."

"Perhaps something for Christmas, then? I have a lovely snow globe that just arrived."

"Snow? Thanks, but, uhm." She comes back to her senses now. "I wonder if you might have something a boy, a ten-year-old, would like. You see, one of my students has been a bit downhearted lately, and I thought I might bring him something to cheer him up."

Henry Mills. Gold doesn't know how he knows that, but immediately his hands are burning and of their own accord they pick up the leather book. "I have just the thing." Only after she takes it from him does he notice the title and realize he's just suggested a book of fairytales for a preadolescent boy. The businessman in him chides him for such a blunder, but his hands stop burning and he finds himself assuring her, "This book is exactly what he needs."

"I don't know." she's frowning, but as she opens the cover and sees a bright color illustration of a medieval prince on horseback, her eyes widen again and she runs her hand over the illustration. "Charming." She's talking to herself, not Gold. She rests the heavy book on the counter and turns its pages reverently. Some of the illustrations elicit an emotional reaction from her—dismay, shock, joy—and when she comes to the last, a drawing of the prince holding a baby, she makes a small sound that Gold can't identify.

"Give this book to Henry. He'll find inspiration and hope in these stories," Gold urges.

"It's beautiful. Must be very old. An antique."

Gold catches himself smiling wryly. "Even the old can have something to teach."

"Oh, but it must be very expensive." She searches for a price tag, but there is none.

"Not as expensive as you think. I would rather see it serving its purpose than taking up shelf space, so let's say twenty dollars."

She frowns. "Oh, no, Mr. Gold, I'm sure it's worth much—"

"Please, Ms. Blanchard. I think this book will bring Henry a measure of happiness; allow me that privilege, to invest in his future."

"You're too kind, Mr. Gold." She fumbles in her tote bag for her coin purse.

"Just—please don't repeat what you just said to anyone else. It could be bad for my business to have the word 'kind' associated with my name." He rings up her purchase and wraps the storybook carefully in butcher paper, then ties it with a string and returns the package to her. "Do drop in again. It's always a pleasure to see you."

She opens the door to leave, setting off the bell again, causing him to flinch. But she pauses before stepping out onto the sidewalk. "Mr. Gold? How did you know this is for Henry?"

"You mentioned it when you first came in."

She frowns again. "No, I—did I? Oh. Well, thank you, Mr. Gold."

"My pleasure, Ms. Blanchard."

* * *

And then an actual change comes. The rumor's spread from one end of town to another in less time than it takes to spread jam on toast: a stranger's arrived. Strangers never arrive in Storybrooke.

Gold hears about it as he's making the rent rounds. The citizenry's so excited they forget it's Gold they're talking to, and they describe the newcomer right down to the color of her eyes. The news is just too juicy: she's Henry's birth mother and she and Regina have already butted heads.

Gold arrives at Granny's to pick up the rent but finds that, for the first time in anyone's memory, the B & B has a customer: the stranger is checking in. She gives her name to Granny.

It's Emma.

And then Gold's world falls apart.


	22. Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

"Enjoy your stay. . . Emma."

Freezing his features, Gold turns and leaves the inn. He intends to not make eye contact with anyone; he has to get out of here before he cracks open. But the werewolf looks directly at him as he's opening the door: does she know something? Can she see the change in him? Can she smell his disintegration? He makes it to the sidewalk. The street noises drown out the whispers that are rising in his head. He should turn left, should move on now to Clark's, then the clock shop, the White Rabbit, so many more stops to make today. Hell, why didn't he just tell his tenants to mail the rent in?

He turns right and brushes past Prince Charming coming out of the animal shelter. Charming sets an empty cat carrier in the bed of his pick up; the cricket's dog must've cornered a stray cat again. As he slides into the driver's seat, Charming glances at Gold and frowns. Does he know? Does he remember too?

Gold picks up his pace but empties his face of all emotion. He's confident of his abilities in that regard; he's had nearly three hundred years of practice.

Two hundred and sixty-four, to be precise, including the last twenty-eight here.

The whispers in his head amplify and now he can distinguish words; they're separate voices flying in on top of each other. "You do realize that should I succeed, you won't remember"—"Next time I cut it off"—"Would you like children someday" — "I will do anything to get out of here"—"I want to be free"—"Do the brave thing" —"Will you do nothing, then—""Whatever will bring us memories of the deceased" — "You did me no favors"—"What do you need of my hair?"—"What do you know of true love?"—"It feels wrong to run away"—"Any number of men have had your wife" — "Why do you spin so much?" —"Did he tell you how he ran"—"Then my life will be perfection" —"He watched me when I went to the well"—"Don't break our deal"—"For me, she will be a queen" — "Instead of controlling the power, you need to take it"—"I want my father"—"I will go with you forever"—"Make this your home"—"Welcome home, son" — "Only a holy man may spin to the left"—"You will never make it to that world" — "We have to go through"—"Let all the damned praise the name of Rumplestiltskin, murderer of True Love!"

Gold rushes past the Blue Star as she's leaving the bank. She stops and stares at him. Oh, yes, if anyone else would know, it would be her. If she has the slightest sliver of magic left in her body, surely she can hear the voices leaking out of his head. "You took my son," he mutters, then vows he'll take it out of her hide someday, even if he finds Bae. Even _when_ he finds Bae.

He's now passing the flower shop. Duke Maurice leans on the door frame, smoking; as soon as he sees Gold, he backs into the safety of his shop. "You're next on my list," Gold swears. "Let's see how well _you_ hold up to scourges."

He turns a corner and runs head-on into Snow White. He's the one who tumbles; she's so much sturdier than she appears. She apologizes profusely, though it's his fault, and she steadies his arms as he regains his feet. Even through her gloves and his jacket he can feel the power coursing through her hands as she lifts him. It's not magic, but it's strong just the same, and it sucks the fury right out of him. Stay away from me, dearie, he wishes to warn her; the Dark One will steal your innocence. For the moment, though, her power has overcome his.

"—so sorry," she concludes, bending down for his fallen cane. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Quite," he answers between his teeth.

"Here, let's go into the bakery and sit down—"

"Not necessary. Now if you'll excuse me, Ms. Blanchard, I must be going."

"Oh, yes, of course, and again I'm—"

He doesn't wait for the rest of her apology. He needs his rage right now; another moment with her and he'll be drained of it. He slams the tip of his cane into the sidewalk as he walks. Damn Regina for making him a cripple again—no, wait, that one was his idea. He thought it would help him adjust to being human again if he had a physical link back to the days before the Dark One. Well, damn Regina anyway, just on general principles.

The voices haven't shut up and now faces are flashing into his head. He rushes into the pawnshop, pushes aside one of the paintings hanging on the wall, exposes the safe, opens it and throws Granny's roll of bills in, and then he's out again, around the back to the parking lot, sliding into the Caddy, cranking up the heat and the radio to opera, yes, thank you, loud opera, he raises it to full volume to smother the voices. He peels out of the parking lot—the Huntsman ignores most traffic violations, so why not speed a little. He's halfway to the cabin when he wonders if he could have snapped his fingers and got here the old fashioned way.

Gold slams the gear shift into park, turns off the ignition and forgetting to close the car door, gallops to the porch. His hands shake and burn—with magic, not "electromagnetism"—as he fumbles for his keys and then he curses and points a finger and the lock pops and the cabin door swings wide for him.

He slams the door behind him and falls back against it. The cabin is dark and cold.

The voices are still coming one on top of another and he can't stand it so he limps to the living room and snaps on the radio to drown them all out. More opera, the morning stock report, even (shudder) country music would be better than what's in his ears right now. He must have a break from the racket if he's to concentrate, figure things out, choose his next course of action. He cranks up the volume on the radio and spins the dial in search of normalcy.

"Every little thing she does is magic! Every little thing just turns—" "Try to understand, try to understand, try try try to understand, he's a magic man—" "Sorcerer, who is the master—" "We raise our hats to the strange phenomena—" "I heat up, I can't cool down, you got me spinnin'—" "A magic world in parallel—" "It's eternally tragic that that which is magic be killed at the end—"

What kind of people are these, anyway, that they waste so much airtime on something that doesn't exist for them?

He snaps the radio off. The voices have stilled. With a deep sigh he moves to the kitchen for a glass of water.

"Turn that radio back on. I was listening to that."

Gold spins around. Someone behind him—someone snuck into the cabin while he was fiddling around—but he finds he's alone. How then this voice, unlike the others, coming perfectly clear from somewhere outside him but close by?

"Well, well, just one big old stick in the mud, are we? Is that what she reduced us to? Or is it a case of 'all work and no play'?"

Gold recognizes that nasal voice and its twittering giggle. His hand shaking, he fills a glass with water and sips it slowly.

"Gold. That's our name here? A little unimaginative, don't you think? But she did that, didn't she."

Gold sits down in the rocking chair near the fireplace. He holds the glass in one hand, grips the chair's arm with the other.

"Poor Wegina, all that power and not an ounce of twu magic in her whole widdle body. But never fear, Rumple's here. Let's get this party started!"

Gold gives the chair a little push with his feet. The rocking lowers his blood pressure, slows his breathing. After a few minutes he's ready to take back control. In a quiet, even voice he says aloud, "Rumplestiltskin." He feels a cold breeze on his skin and hears a fluttering like birds' wings in his ears. "Rumplestiltskin."

"I can hear you perfectly, dearie. No need to shout."

"How do we manage this, then?"

"Eventually you'll come to terms with me, just as I came to terms with the Dark One. He's gone, by the way; left behind. You may thank me now or I'll remind you later."

Gold continues rocking, head thrown back, eyes closed. "I don't have to 'come to terms.' You're me."

The voice softens and saddens. "No, dearie. I wasn't going to bring this up just yet, but. . . .Really, there's only me. Shall I give you some time to think about that?"

Gold doesn't exist.

Gold is a fiction created by Regina. Something she thought would translate well into the new world, something that met his requirements ("I want comfort. I want a good life.") but kept him leashed to her. Even stripped of his memories and his magic, he taxed her and she would have him.

Gold is a lie.

"That's right, dearie. But we—I—need him a little longer. Must keep up the pretense, especially around her."

"Magic."

"Yes. She has a little."

Gold smirks. "But so do I. More."

"Yes, but when she finds the curse is pulling apart at the seams, what else can she do but fight? She hasn't enough magic to run."

"Unless I give her some, just enough to get home on."

"Hmm. I'd better think about that. If she feels backed into a corner, she won't run; she'll go down fighting. But she's smart enough to know her limits, so she won't come after me directly; she'll attack the ones who can't fight back."

"Snow."

"Snow first. If Regina's going to die, she'll take Snow with her."

"Henry."

Rumplestiltskin falls silent.

Gold continues to rock and sip his water. "But I won't let it come to that."

"We won't let it come to that."

"It's too late to bargain with her."

"Yes. That would only delay the inevitable, anyway. The fight should come soon before she has a chance to build her reserves."

"The curse breaker is here."

"She will require a lot of work. She's too strong willed to be easily convinced."

"She's what we need her to be. Only the strongest of wills can take Regina down."

"No, that's not for her. _I_ created Regina. _I _have to take her down."

Gold looks to his hands, his bad knee, his cane. "I need a lot of work too."

"It's already written. I just have to play it out."

"And not fall to cowardice."

"That's what Lake Nostros is for."

Gold stops rocking. "The potion."

"Restore your—my—bravery."

"Restore my humanity."

"So I can fight her."

"And so everyone else can find their way back home."

"Including Bae. With him beside me, I can do anything."

"If he forgives," Gold reminds him.

"That's what the potion's for, dearie. The most powerful magic in all the realm. More powerful than Bae's anger, more powerful than Regina's revenge, more powerful than the Blue Star's righteousness and the Morning Star's jealousy."

"More powerful than Rumplestiltskin's fear."

"More powerful than these fragile shells we carry our souls in. Living love. More powerful than death."

"The only thing that survives."

"So let's get to work then, dearie. Get some paper and let's plot this out. 'How to Create a Believer in Ten Easy Steps' by Rumplestiltskin." The imp giggles.

Gold rises to retrieve his legal pad.

"Oh, and while you're up: turn the radio back on. I think better if I'm stimulated. No, no, not the stock report, for crying out loud! Give me some _rock 'n' roll_, you stick-in-the-mud!"

Gold turns the radio on. "_I'm a believer, I couldn't leave her_—"

"We're getting there, dearie. We're getting there."

* * *

His legal pad filled, he drops it onto the kitchen table. In the morning he'll study it again, then burn it. He's okay. He has a plan now, tasks to complete, steps to follow to reach goals that build to his final objective: restoration of his family and his community. Really, there's a bigger goal he must pursue, but he can't face it right now: restoration of his soul. Provoke the savior into action, nudge her onto her path, bring out the dragonslayer in her, that's first, and when she's broken the curse, Rumplestiltskin the scientist will carry out the next great experiment of his career: combining the waters of Lake Nostros with True Love's potion. If his hypotheses are correct, love will be restored, forgiveness will be granted, healing will begin. And of more immediate concern, his full magic will be restored, giving him the power to defeat Regina.

When Regina is gone, this place will be safe for Snow and Charming, Henry and Emma, Granny and Red, Jiminy, the dwarves and . . . yes, and the fairies.

And this place will be safe for Bae.

Emma the huntress will find Bae and bring him here. That's why she's the savior, not just the curse breaker—because her work will save Rumplestiltskin.

Gold drops back in his chair, runs his hands through his hair. "My gods. I'm Rumplestiltskin."

"Indeed we are," the nasal voice answers, not unkindly.

Gold stands and takes a few steps, then pain shoots through his knee and he has to grab the edge of the kitchen table.

"The curse is not yet broken, dearie. We must walk before we can run. Let's go spin a while and put this day behind us."

* * *

When he touches the wheel, he remembers.

Thanks to his foresight and Regina's adherence to the conditions of their deal, Gold has little caches of magic all over town. Only a former mage would be able to detect and access the magic, and as long as he can convince Regina that he's still Gold and Gold alone, he's not worried she'll stumble across his hidden reserves. She would have to find several of them to make it worth her while, anyway: only the spinning wheel contains enough magic to do damage. These caches were never meant as arsenals; Rumplestiltskin intended them only as emergency reserves. . . and comforters.

When he can't sleep tonight, Gold seeks a little magical nightcap. He roots around in his closet for goodies tucked away among his tailored jackets, shirts and slacks.

Rumplestiltskin clicks his tongue. "Disappointing, dearie."

"Why?"

"Well, I know _she_ chose your occupation, and that must dictate the style of your working clothes, but this is what you wear off-duty? Don't tell me you wear Hugo Boss waders while you're trout fishing!"

"Of course not." He slides the suits aside and reveals a couple of pairs of black chinos and polo shirts.

"Good gods, boy," the imp groans. "Have you no style?"

"Don't try to change me. It'll arouse suspicion."

"Yes, yes," Rumplestiltskin snaps. "But as soon as this curse breaks, we're going shopping. Your CD collection first, then clothes. Something in a well-cured dragon skin. . . .What's that?"

Gold bends down to retrieve something shiny protruding from a shoe. He steps back from the closet to examine it in the light: it's a silver comb.

"Estrilda," Rumplestiltskin breathes.

Gold's fingers burn as the touches the teeth. "There's a little magic here, but it's hers."

"Put it away. Bury it in the morning."

"It's safe. She's trapped in Wonderland, if she's alive at all."

"Nothing, dearie, is as we left it."

Gold sets the comb on his dresser for later disposal. He roots again in the closet and on a shelf finds an ornate little jewelry box. Inside is a necklace, a single pearl on a thin gold chain. He picks it up and lays it across his palm. He can feel magic in it, soft small drops of dewy magic.

"Yes. That one," Rumplestiltskin approves.

Sitting down on his bed, Gold closes his hand around the necklace and shuts his eyes. He hears a click and that's the end of Rumple's rock concert: Rumple has shut the radio off. The imp may be crass but not entirely devoid of sensibility.

At first there's only blackness behind Gold's eyelids, then there's a swirl of color, robin's egg blue, and the scent of roses, and a gentle hand resting on his shoulder. A breath against his ear requests, "Rumplestiltskin, wait. I remember. I love you."

And then she's gone.

Gold lays the necklace back into the jewelry box. He ignores the blurriness in his eyes.

"The pearl was too small to hold much magic," Rumple apologizes.

"It was enough."

"There are lives beyond this one," Rumple reminds Gold. "We'll find her again."

Gold snaps off the lamp and lies back on his bed.

* * *

"This is what we drive, huh?"

Gold slips the key into the ignition and starts the engine. Rumple's been complaining all morning, first about the shower (he doesn't see the point in bathing more than once a season), then the aftershave (a little lanolin would smell more manly), then the breakfast (where are the crocodile eggs, and that should be _tea_, not coffee, with lemon). It would have become a knockdown drag-out over the clothes if Rumple could've been knocked down and dragged out.

"I want a Lamborghini. Or at least a Ferrari."

"This is what Gold would drive and Regina expects to see Gold."

"So we can't have any fun at all, is what you're saying."

"Not until the curse is broken." Gold shifts into reverse and backs out of the drive.

"When the curse is broken, you realize Gold won't exist any more."

"I realize it's my choice then, which one of us goes."

"Yeah, but do you want to continue to live her lie?"

"If I stay here I have to blend in. I'm a middle-aged businessman. I can't very well call myself the Dark One and go tearing around in dragon-skin jackets and leather pants, can I?" Gold shifts into drive and pulls out onto the highway.

"I can if I'm a rock star."

Gold chortles. "A rock star? You couldn't carry a tune in a donkey cart."

"You haven't listened to much rock, have you? Besides, perception is everything."

Gold turns on the radio—to opera.

"Besides, Bae would love a Lamborghini."

Gold relents. "All right, if Bae wants a Lamborghini, we get a Lamborghini."

As he enters town, Rumplestiltskin falls silent. Gold parks behind the pawnshop and unlocks the front door at precisely 10 a.m., not that there are any customers waiting. He turns on the lights and the heating, flips the "closed" sign, starts the coffee—not the tea—and opens the _WSJ_. As the hours crawl by, he relaxes into his routine. It's a normal day, with two sales and one purchase, roast beef and pickles at noon, the kids running and skating past his window at 3:30. When the bell above his door tinkles, he doesn't startle any more; instead, he has a memory flash of robin's egg blue and roses and Rumple says quietly, "Belle."

It's already dark at 6 o'clock when he locks the shop. Now it's time for Rumplestiltskin to go to work. Emma's feeling defeatist and is already thinking of leaving; getting her to stay long enough to break the curse will be an uphill battle. Convincing her she's a dragon- and sorceress-slayer will be a major feat, but Rumplestiltskin has a long resume of groundbreaking feats.

The first task is to remind Regina she can't run Emma out unless Gold allows it. So he trespasses onto the mayor's property, strolling as if he's on a Sunday morning constitutional, and as he admires Emma's handiwork with a chainsaw—not as subtle as he's like, but definite dragonslayer material—he plants a few ideas with Regina. He leaves her stunned and frustrated, chasing after him: "You wanted all this to happen, didn't you?"

As he drives home, he thinks maybe it's his fault she's so unimaginative. As her teacher, he should have tried to develop that quality in her. To have come as far as she has, and yet not be farsighted enough to imagine that anyone who would create the Curse to End All Curses might also have an endgame of his own, is just dumb luck.

Or favoritism on the part of the Morning Star.


	23. Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

Rumplestiltskin is leaking all over Gold's life. He's changing Gold's vocabulary with his antiquated, elegant phrasing, he's changing Gold's voice with his nasal pitch and his giggles, he's changing Gold's appetites and habits and hobbies and—

And it must stop. This morning Gold slipped and called Ms. Lucas "Red." She tilted her head and waited for an explanation; he was so flustered he couldn't think of one so he pretended it never happened. She had the grace to let it pass, but she continued to look at him curiously as she served him his breakfast. Of course, that may have had something to do with the fact that he'd ordered crocodile eggs over easy—"Just a quip, dearie, not serious," Rumple giggled.

"I can't allow this to continue," Gold fumes. "It's distracting, it drains my energy trying to control it, and worse, it's raising suspicion."

"I understand, dearie," Rumple says, "but you must allow me some means of self-expression. Remember, I'm what's real."

Rumple sounds like a rebellious adolescent, Gold thinks, but they make a deal: during the day, Rumple restrains himself; at night, in the privacy of the big salmon ("It's pink!" Rumple exclaims when he first sees it. "However did you allow her to stick you with a pink house?") Victorian. There isn't much Gold can do about the food cravings, but with the Internet and a credit card Rumple's tastes in clothing and music can be indulged. He consumes ravenously and continuously. There's no solitude in the pink house any more; he sweeps the antiques out of the way and fills the space with electronics, DVDs, CDs. There's a TV or a computer in every room now, usually turned on; Rumple watches and listens to anything from Jerry Springer to CNN. He's particularly fond of science fiction and westerns. Gold has to hide everything on Mondays before the cleaning service arrives. To Rumple, the world is just one big bag of potato chips waiting to be torn open. Literally. His eating habits are atrocious and Gold's in a perpetual state of heartburn.

Yet, Gold likes him. He's funny, curious, spontaneous, quick and charismatic—everything Gold is not. Rumplestiltskin loves this world; he loves life.

He loves. Gold envies that, until Rumple reminds him "I was you before she created you."

Rumple has a serious side, though, and knowledge that Gold greatly needs. They build a lab in the basement and set to work studying and experimenting, trying to figure out, with the very limited resources available in the pawnshop, how magic works in this world. They're preparing for Regina.

* * *

Physiological changes have been occurring in Mr. Gold's body, changes that cause him to cancel his annual physical because there's just no way in hell he wants Whale finding out about them.

The first change he notices comes on the second morning after Emma's—and Rumple's—arrival. He's crouching to retrieve a fallen cufflink that's rolled under his dresser. It's gone too far for him to reach with his fingers and he's griping to himself that he'll have to trudge all the way downstairs to the kitchen closet for a broom with which to extract the cufflink. In frustration he tugs at the dresser, though he knows damn well it's solid mahogany and as unmovable as the Sphinx; he just needs to express his annoyance before he makes that trip downstairs. He tugs with one hand, the other hand steadying himself with his cane.

The front end of the dresser lifts.

He sets it down gently and stares at it, then stares at his hand. He repeats the tug and the dresser rises again. On the third lift he retrieves the cufflink; Gold is making a fourth lift when Rumple awakens and comments, "Showoff."

Gold stands and attaches the cufflink. "Well, it's been a while since I could do that," he answers defensively.

"Just don't run around town bench-pressing cars now, just because you can."

* * *

Three days later, as he watches the Saturday shoppers pass by his window, he discovers he can hear their conversations, including an exchange between Ruby and another young lady:

"There's something different about Mr. Gold lately. Didja notice? It's like he's been using that Grecian hair formula."

"Yeah. He came into the diner last night and he had a bag from The Spin with him."

"The Spin? Him?"

"That's what I thought, so when he got up to use the john I looked in it and you know what he'd bought? Foo Fighters, 30 Seconds to Mars, Gaga, Maroon 5."

"Gaga?! You gotta be kidding!"

"And he was totally checking me out the whole time he was in the diner. Bet he's got some moves like Jagger."

"Ruuuuby! You're incorrigible!"

"Well, check him out. No, don't look—he's watching us. But he's, like, I don't know, more energetic now or something. Like he's taking Viagra. You know? He's totally doable now."

"With the money he's got, I would've done him before."

"Yeah, but now, I think I'd enjoy it."

Gold turns tomato red and hurriedly opens the _WSJ_ to an article about the Greek fuel market. In the back of his head, Rumple sniggers.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin wants a baby.

Specifically, Ashley Boyd's. Now that the curse breaker's come and the time loop has been cut, Ashley's due to deliver any day.

"Do you have the stomach for this?" he asks Gold. "It'll be the most monstrous thing you'd done in Storybrooke."

"Do _you_? You won't be so 'doable' after word of this gets out."

"It has to be finished. The terms of the agreement must be fulfilled. The magic won't have it any other way."

"Unless a new deal is struck."

"Perhaps. . . .'How to Train Your Savior in Ten Easy Steps.' Step One: get her invested."

"The foster system is Ms. Swan's red button issue."

"Are you ready to be a bastard, Gold?"

* * *

The boy and the cricket are caught in a cave-in. Gold closes his shop and watches from the woods as Emma enters the mine. He paces furiously until the wrench lifts the trio to safety.

"The outcome's already written," Rumple reminds Gold. "The kid's gonna be fine and Step Two: Emma's gonna discover her heroism."

"Yeah." Still, Gold frets for Henry.

* * *

"Lost, are we?" Rumple observes on the evening that David is hovering outside the pawnshop, and he remembers the dragon-fighting quests he sent Charming on, both of them, and Gold remembers now too. Or maybe it's not remembering, since Gold wasn't there for any of it; whenever Rumple shares a fragment of memory of Fairytale Land, Gold seems to know what happens next, although it doesn't feel at all familiar.

"He's leaking too," Rumple adds.

"What do you mean?" Gold mutters.

"Charming's bleeding through. The curse isn't as air-tight as I'd thought it would be."

"Poor guy," Gold remarks, though about Charming/David he and Rumple have mixed feelings. "Could it be dangerous?"

"Could be helpful to the curse breaker's cause."

"Will it be for all of them like it is for me now? This. . . double-mindedness?"

"Nothing about my life has ever been normal." Rumple sighs. "I don't think so, dearie. When they remember who they are, I think they'll return to themselves pretty quickly. The jig will be up by then; no need to keep playing the parts Regina created."

"Is that why—"

"Why Gold continues to exist? You tell me. It's your choice, but you do have to choose. One of us has to go—and I'm the original. You're the photo negative."

"Rumplestiltskin can't exist here. There are no imps in Maine. No imps, gnomes, dragons, Dark Ones."

Rumple giggles. "That's what you think, dearie."

* * *

Snow White and Prince Charming are finding each other again. Regina practically shrieks as she watches them dance around each other with Kathryn planted in the middle. Rumple hates this part of the story; he looks away as Charming flounders and Snow takes the heat for both of them. "Hypocrites," he complains of the gossip mongers. "They're gonna feel like fools when they find out it's Snow who's the wronged wife."

"Let it play out," Gold cautions. "Snow's stronger than she seems. It's for the savior, remember? Step Three: let her feel trusted. Snow turns to Emma now as the only one she can trust."

"Yeah, well, I'll feel a lot better when this comes back to bite Regina in her arrogant ass."

* * *

Regina's desperation is growing: there's a traitor in her ranks, so she kills him. This isn't part of the plan, but Gold cold-bloodedly takes advantage. He uses Graham's death to nudge Emma and Henry closer, and then he positions Emma for Step Four: put her in power. The arsonist and the publicity spinner create such a labyrinth of a scheme that Emma isn't even aware she's in a maze until she's already out the other side, wearing the sheriff's badge.

"It's a brilliant bait-and-switch," Rumple applauds. "I love the smell of lanolin in the morning. Smells like victory." But he's less than pleased when Gold weakens and asks, cryptically, for the savior's forgiveness. "Watch out, you're starting to care what she thinks. Emotional entanglements can lead us down very dangerous paths."

* * *

Emma was born a curse breaker, but to become a savior, she must be molded. Gold is just the conniving, scheming bastard to do it. As he sets his dominoes in place for Emma to knock down, one by one, thus building her confidence and commitment to Storybrooke, demonstrating to her time and again that she's a hero, he has to admit he really is, as they say, a manipulative son of a bitch. The Morning Star, watching from below, must be proud of his adopted son—arson, election tampering, black market babies, kidnapping, phony murder charges—that is, assuming he can't see the outcome of it all.

Nearly three centuries of using and being used have led to this. Gold really is a monster.

Rumplestiltskin keeps him human, reminds him these are human beings he's messing with. Gold says so what if they take a little bruising now; it's the only way to bring back the happy-ever-afters. In turn, Rumple reminds Gold that these people have hearts and a heart once chipped will never be whole again. Rumple retreats entirely when Gold sets up the phony murder that lands Snow in jail. Although Gold proves to him on paper that the situation will bring Emma and Snow close together and forge in each woman a faith that can't be broken, Rumple can't accept Snow's suffering, even for just a few days, even when it's for the greater good. He sulks in silence until Snow is free again.

* * *

At other times, Rumple won't shut up. It's all his idea to repo Maurice's van; Gold considers it bad business, considering the profit Moe could make on Valentine's Day: Gold could simply extend the loan another twenty-four hours and charge, oh, say, a 200% interest rate. But Rumple seizes the moment, and his motives are blatantly obvious. When Moe retaliates, Rumple snickers, "We got him now"—until Gold discovers the tea cup is missing.

Gold manages to keep him in check for half a day, until Sheriff Swan proudly produces the loot she's recovered and the cup is missing. At that moment Rumple shouts, "Belle!" in Gold's brain and slams Gold against a metaphorical wall. "Regina's behind this," Gold points out; "Go after her, not Maurice," but Rumple's on the rampage and will not be talked down. Foolishly, he drives to Clark's and right there in front of three witnesses he buys rope and duct tape—"Clark will have a receipt of your purchases! You're asking to be caught," Gold argues.

"I don't care. I waited too long as it is. This is for Belle. Or have you stopped loving her already?" Rumple silences Gold.

And if the rope and duct tape aren't enough of an attraction, he starts a conversation with Charming that the prince is not likely to forget. He embarrasses the boy, makes it clear he knows the boy is conducting an extramarital affair. Rumple can't stay out of it because he knows the wronged spouse is Snow White. And then, aching still for Belle, Rumple has to offer Charming some unsolicited advice. If the boy is called as a witness, he's sure to remember the reclusive pawnbroker's strange ramblings about romance. "What are you doing, you fool?" Gold shrieks at him, but Rumple walls him off.

An hour later, a stunned Emma is seizing his arm, and then finally Rumple backs off, huddles in the back of Gold's brain like a kicked dog. Stunned, Gold drops the cane with which he's nearly beaten a man to death.

"You've got a funny definition of justice. What did he really do?"

From his corner, Rumple sobs. "He killed Belle. Tell Emma. She's the savior; she'll—"

"She'll what?" Gold hisses to him. "Bring her back to life? No magic can do that, not even the savior's. And there's no justice here for Belle because Belle never existed in this world. So shut up and let me handle this."

Gold handles Regina as well. The imp hangs back, watching, and when it's over he admits Regina is different here, ice rather than the fire she used to be. She can't be teased and prodded any more. "I will take her down," Gold assures Rumple. "In my own time, not yours."

When it's all over, when backroom deals and under-the-counter payoffs have cleared Gold of all charges, the imp is subdued. Alone in his big pink house, Gold confronts him. "I can't have you interfering like this. You're keeping me from Bae."

"I'm bringing justice for Belle!"

"You don't belong in this world, Rumplestiltskin. You can't adapt to their rules and you can't make your own here."

"If you're proposing that when the curse breaks we go back—"

"No, that's not what I'm proposing."

Rumple realizes there's only one other option: either he goes or Gold does.


	24. Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

**A/N. The conclusion. Thanks for joining me on this journey. Especially, thanks for all the words of encouragement; your comments helped me to see the path. I hope you've enjoyed this story.**

* * *

"Regina's on the edge," Gold warns. "Snow's slipping through her fingers. David's chosen Mary Margaret. The fake marriage is over and Regina knows it. Manipulation's not working for her; she's going escalate if we don't do something. She's tasted blood in this world; a second killing would mean nothing to her."

"Let me think." Since Rumple can't pace, Gold does it for him.

Rumple has seen the writing on the wall and the graffiti on the car. "Regina's rebranding efforts are paying off," Gold remarks wryly. "Mary Margaret's name is now synonymous with 'harlot.'"

Rumple releases a stream of expletives.

"Kathryn's moving out. Without that barrier to keep David and Mary Margaret apart—"

"We can't wait any longer. If Regina thinks Snow will get her happy-ever-after in this world despite the curse, you know what a desperate soul will resort to."

Gold's mouth tightens. "So we offer Regina exactly what she wants, without her needing to bloody her hands."

Rumple agrees. "Kill Kathryn before Regina kills Snow."

The threads of the plot are delicate but strong, and Rumple weaves them expertly. He knows the major players too well to guess wrong at their response as he pulls each thread taut.

Kathryn's heart is found in a jewelry box belonging to Mary Margaret. Emma arrests her flatmate for murder; David turns against Mary Margaret.

* * *

"Step Five: get the savior to listen to her own voice."

As Mary Margaret goes down in a brutal murder frame-up, Emma turns frantically for help, bouncing from Glass to Booth and back again, but finds she can lean on no one. For her best friend's/mother's sake, the sheriff must stand on her own.

With Gold on her side, Regina believes she's won: she's glowing when she hears from his own lips that Gold will "represent" Mary Margaret in her murder trial—they both know, because Gold has promised it, Snow will be gone long before a trial date can be set.

"Someday Her Majesty had better learn to read the fine print. 'Something tragic,' my ass," Rumple mutters.

Rumple believes in the plan, but he sinks into depression just the same.

"This is Snow's arrow all over again," Gold tries. "Classic misdirection. Make Regina think Snow will be convicted of murder, so she doesn't need to bother to kill her, but in fact frame Regina."

"Sleight of hand is what you fall back on when you have no real magic."

"But it worked. The arrow found its target. Snow found her love."

"You're overlooking something, Gold. Snow wasn't behind bars accused of murder then."

Rumple retreats after that. Gold offers him rock music, leather pants and tea; he accepts the tea but drifts farther away, not speaking for days. Gold carries out the plan alone.

* * *

Step Six: Let the walls fall down.

Desperate, Mary Margaret runs. Emma pursues the fugitive, rescues her and herself from a madman—and then lets her go again. "These things engender trust." Gold whistles lowly. "Gods, what a woman."

Mary Margaret/Snow hands the keys back. "Gods, what a woman," Rumple whistles lowly.

The curse breaker's trust barrier has been breached. "We're done here. It's time to resurrect the dead. Release Kathryn."

"Watch out now. You've dismantled all her landmines; Regina has nothing left but a frontal attack, unless you head her off at the pass."

"You've been watching too many movies, Rumple."

* * *

And then it's Gold's turn to be the victim of misdirection.

He's caught August poking around in the back of the pawnshop, and now he's starting to think, and he's starting to feel, and his blood pressure's rising. "No," Rumple insists, "you're wrong: that's not Bae. _That's not Bae_."

But Gold must investigate, and the Blue Star tells him what he longs to hear—though Rumple points out she hasn't named names—and August has a drawing of the dagger among his belongings at the inn. Gold is sold.

"Don't be a fool," Rumple argues. "That's not Bae. This dude has blue eyes. Or have you forgotten what your own son looks like?"

"Contact lenses," Gold speculates. "He knows about the dagger. Who else could it be?"

"Half of Fairytale Land knows the legend of the Dark One."

"But the curse—none of them remember anything about Fairytale Land."

"Charming is leaking," Rumple reminds him.

But Gold will not listen. He needs for August to be Bae. He begins to make plans; he'll happily walk away from everything—the shop, the town—go anywhere, it doesn't matter, whatever Bae wants is fine with him. "I have money; I can give him anything. If he wants to go back after the curse is broken, that's fine too."

"There's nothing to go back to," Rumple says firmly. "And that's not Bae. It's a trap."

A trap that Gold falls into. He pours out his heart to the conman, everything Rumple has waited two centuries to say, and August hugs him and forgives him and calls him papa, and Gold surrenders. Anything, anything for Bae, so when August asks for the dagger, Gold hands it over without hesitation.

Then August turns the dagger on him and Gold falls apart. Rumple steps in, rescuing the dagger. He's ready to cut the conman's throat when Gold talks him down: the rules of this place. . . . Rumple rants: when the rules impede justice, I say, damn the rules. Gold argues that August could be useful; Emma trusts him; he'll make a believer of her. Rumple pockets the dagger and walks away. He hides in under a floorboard in the cabin.

* * *

Gold sits at his wheel, spinning. Breaking.

Belle is gone, Bae is gone. _It's forever, dearie_. It doesn't matter any more if the savior believes, if the curse is broken. Two hundred years of working and hoping and believing, for nothing. His words to Charming come back at him: _So brave, so gallant, so pointless._

"Hurt all you need to, but nothing's changed," Rumple says quietly. "Go back to work. Step Seven: Keep focused—that applies to you as well as Emma. She's derailing herself with custody rights."

"I don't care. Let her do what she wants. Let her have her son while she can. Before it's too late."

"Baelfire is not gone. Get back to work."

* * *

In the morning, when he should be behind his counter, he's still in the cabin, still spinning, still breaking.

* * *

In the evening, when he should be locking up and strolling over to the diner, he's still spinning.

"Enough," Rumple says. "August is having trouble with Emma. He needs you. Get to work."

"What do I care? Let the conman go to hell."

"It's not for him. It's for Snow and Henry. Charming and Emma. Red and Granny. The cricket. It's for Bae, who's still out there, waiting, twenty-eight years later, for his papa."

With a deep sigh Gold locks the cabin and returns to Storybrooke. To his life's work.

"There's a way, I think," Rumple suggests. He's awakened Gold in the wee morning hours to discuss it.

"A way for what?" Gold sits up groggily. The imp never did sleep much, but Gold is a middle-aged man who needs his rest.

"To fix this. Us. Go to the shop."

"What, now? Why?" But he climbs out of bed anyway. He's learning to listen to Rumple.

* * *

Two hours later, they're back at the cabin. On the bed they've spread out the treasures they've collected from the shop: Bae's kickball, his brown cloak; Rumplestiltskin's walking stick, his green silk shirt; the checked shirt Gold was wearing on the day Emma arrived; Belle's ball gown.

Gold folds his arms. "What is this for?"

"It's forever, dearie."

Rumple takes over, because they need magic now. He extracts magic from the walking stick, a healthy dose that makes Gold's entire arms vibrate and makes his stomach do rollercoaster flips. Rumple giggles and hops and claps his hands, and Gold wonders if this is what cocaine feels like to an addict. Then Rumple settles down, gets to work: with the magic he unravels the checked shirt, every bit of it, into separate piles of white and blue thread.

"What are you doing?"

Rumple doesn't answer. He attacks the shirt, the ball gown and the cloak, unraveling them too. And then he retrieves Belle's necklace from its jewelry box, holds it in one hand and holds Bae's kickball in the other, and Gold closes his eyes and Rumple opens his mind, seeking, finding colorful swirls of energy in the treasures: robin's egg blue from the necklace, fresh-earth brown from the ball. He draws the energy in, mixes it with the yellow energy of the walking stick, and it becomes a purple cloud that he lowers onto the piles of thread. When the cloud dissipates, the threads are glowing purple.

Rumple sits down at the loom and with the enchanted thread begins to weave.

* * *

Rumple raises his head, listening. "Emma's running. She's abducted Henry."

"She can't leave Storybrooke," Gold answers.

"Step Eight; remove all exits." Rumple frowns at Gold. "Step Nine is next."

Gold stares at nothing. "He'll be all right." But he gnaws a lip just the same.

Into the morning he's still weaving, bringing the blue and the brown and the green and the gold and the white together, imbuing the threads with magic that blends and binds them.

* * *

"Regina is coming to the shop."

Reluctantly he leaves his weaving, slides into the Caddy and drives to his shop. He rushes in the back way and is at his counter just in time to greet Her Majesty.

"She's desperate," Rumple comments. "She's ready to kill."

Gold provokes; she pushes back. She's queenly in her demands and her selfishness; if she were anything less, they would still be in Fairytale Land. She's had her wish for twenty-eight years and not a single moment of it has given her contentment.

He reveals to her he's planning a trip and will not be available to assist her in patching the curse. Had she asked where he's going, what he's seeking—had she ever shown the slightest interest in his life or anyone else's—she might have learned to listen.

But she has no interest in hearing his plans. Had she changed in these twenty-eight years, had she become the kind of person who listens, the curse would have folded in on itself and collapsed under its own weight, and they would all be free now, Regina included. But Rumplestiltskin has always counted upon her inability to change. Watching her come apart as her plans unravel, he thinks of his own single-mindedness and he realizes he must change or be left behind, left alone, as she will be.

Getting to this world, he can see now, was only half the battle. To find Bae, Rumplestiltskin must become the bigger man.

* * *

"Step Nine: Threaten what she loves the most."

Gold sighs. "Henry." Regina is planning to poison Emma, but it's going to backfire.

When Regina leaves, he returns to the cabin and continues weaving into the night.

He hasn't slept in two days, but no matter; Rumplestiltskin never needed much sleep. At sunrise he rises from the bench. He removes the tapestry he's woven and admires his handiwork.

Gold scowls at it; it's either modern art or it's a mess; either way he can't see a pattern in it. "What is it?"

"This ties our fates together, yours and mine and Bae's and Belle's. Tie the last thread," Rumple instructs.

Gold makes a small knot in the thread. As he finishes, his hands are tingling and he feels the energy surging and pouring forth from his fingers like an ocean wave breaking against the shore. The tapestry glows with a gold light.

"Step Ten," Rumple whispers. "Break down all logic."

Gold holds the tapestry up to the sunlight streaming through his cabin window. Rumple has created a scene: a Great Wheel in a sunny meadow. Stretched across the wheel to the spindle is a golden thread. Gold recognizes the wheel as the one Osbert and Clotild gave Rumple.

As he studies the scene, he hears the voices of those now bound together.

**"I can make things right."**

**"The only magic powerful enough to break any curse. It must be protected at all costs."**

**"Never underestimate someone who's acting for their child."**

**"You trust me to come back?"**

"I trust you, Belle," Gold answers softly. He folds the tapestry and tucks it into inner pocket of his suit jacket, next to his heart. He clears his throat. "I suppose I'd better get back to the shop. It's almost time for the savior."

But Rumplestiltskin doesn't reply.

* * *

They arrive together, Emma and Regina, but he knows this truce is temporary. He wants nothing so much as to pick up Charming's sword and run it through Regina himself for what he knows Henry is going through, but he must play out his part. The story is already written; Henry is safe. He draws in a breath and with it, releases his hatred.

His entire history is in his voice as he presents the savior with his gift, the weapon she will need to recover the hidden vial in the beast's belly. "Your father's sword." Someday, when they are old and swapping battle tales around a campfire, he will tell her about her father's victories, and she will describe her own battle with the dragon. Henry and Bae will treasure these ancient stories.

He sends the savior out to do her work, and he prepares for his. Soon, the savior and he will change the world.

"Step Eleven: Remind her of her heritage. And then get out of her way," Gold grins, but his smile vanishes when Rumple doesn't answer. There's only one voice in his head now; he feels a little lonely.

He closes the case in which he'd stored the sword, and he puts it away. He goes to his workroom and finds the rope and duct tape Rumple had bought from Clark's, and he watches the clock, wondering just how much time it takes to slay a dragon.

Very soon now. Two hundred years coming to fruition. If the hypotheses are correct, they will all, even Regina, soon be free—of the curse, of the past.

Forgiveness is coming.

He drops his head and closes his eyes, listening to the clock tick.

_They say You exist. Even the Deceiver says so. They say You are the Source. . . of magic, of life, of love. I've lived three lives and I've never felt Your presence in any of them. I know now that's because I wasn't listening. You were there in Bae's eyes and Belle's laugh, in Saer's hands and Clotild's lullabies and Osbert's strength. You were there in every turn of the wheel. Let the breaking of my curse restore us to ourselves._

Deep, deep in his head he hears a joyous giggle and he remembers who he is, who he wants to be. The fiction ends.

_And let True Love's magic restore us to each other. I, Rumplestiltskin the spinner, ask this._

He opens the door and enters the street.

* * *

In his hands Rumplestiltskin holds True Love. He's lied to the savior to get it, but someday he'll confront all his crimes, explain his reasons and admit the pain he's caused, and ask forgiveness. He thinks he knows who will forgive him: Snow will be the first, then Henry and Emma. Those who won't forgive, he can only let them go, if he's to become a changed man.

Except for Bae. He must never let Bae go.

The bell above the shop door tinkles and he jerks, but not for the same reason as before: he's simply annoyed with himself that he failed to lock the door when he came back here to open the egg protecting the vial. The clock ticks and there's no time left: the town has awakened from the curse, the Evil Queen has lost and now must be defeated. Magic must be released because magic is protection.

He turns.


	25. Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

**A/N. I've given a lot of thought to Dracomom's suggestion to continue the story to tie up loose ends, and I decided there is one loose end I'd like to tie up. It means a departure of perhaps four or five chapters from the motif of spinning, however, so I'd thought to make it a separate story, but as it started to develop I saw that spinning will come back into play after this departure. So if I can ask your patience in accepting a temporary break in the motif, I'll tie up that loose end. This is dedicated to you, Dracomom!**

**Normally I try to stick pretty close to the canon (so, for example, when Kitsis and Horowitz said Gold didn't remember his FTL past until the moment he met Emma, I stuck with that, although the indicators seem to point in other direction). But I have to admit, I was less than satisfied with the Rumbelle reunion scenes in "Land Without Magic." So I'm going back out on a limb with some embellishments—something I'm pretending to be a "deleted scene," but I just can't imagine that on the drive to the well, Rumple and Belle didn't have a _few_ things to say to each other . And then, yeah, I'm violating canon flat-out, because I just didn't feel a hug was enough of a response from Rumple when Belle opened her heart to him and said she loved him, so I'm bumping up The Kiss. Fair warning: if you're a canon devotee, you may want to skip this chapter.**

* * *

"_Do I know you?"_

"_No, but you will."_

Rumplestiltskin draws in a deep breath. He'd love nothing more than to fall apart, but all hell is going to bust loose any second, now that Regina's lost both her bid for revenge and her custody of Henry, and here's Belle, standing before him, needing him. _Needing_ him, and gods, he needs to be needed right now.

She's in a fragile state and he's in a hurry—a bad combination, and in another circumstance he would choose to give all his time to her. He has no doubt, though, that hesitation could mean Belle's death as well as Snow's, Charming's, Jiminy's—maybe even Henry's. And the first person on Regina's hit list will be Rumplestiltskin.

He mustn't frighten Belle off, though, with his wild tales of magic and revenge; clearly, more damage has been done to her than just the memory loss caused by the curse. He proceeds slowly, to gain her confidence. "Do you know where you are?"

"The sign said this is a shop of some kind."

"Yes. Do you know the name of this village?"

"'Storybrooke, Maine, town of a thousand stories.'"

He smiles. Wherever she's been, she's been watching the local TV station; she's just quoted their slogan. That's a start. Now the hard question. "What is your name?"

She scowls and rubs her forehead as if a sudden headache has struck. "They call me Jane Doe, but that's not right."

He takes her hand to comfort her. She neither accepts or rejects the gesture. "When I knew you, long ago, your name was Belle."

Her face clears. "Belle." She tries it on for size. "Belle. Yes. And there was a man—"

He catches his breath. Did she remember him?

"A big man, important? He loved me but he was afraid. There was a war. People were dying. He needed help to help them."

"Yes. Your father. His name was Maurice."

"Someone came to help us, a man with sparkly skin and—" she looks at him directly, giving him hope. "And eyes like yours, except gold."

"That was me, Belle," he says eagerly. "Do you remember my name?"

"Jefferson said you were Mr. Gold, but—" She concentrates for long minutes—minutes he really shouldn't spare—and when tears of frustration appear in her eyes, he squeezes her hand.

"It's okay, Belle. Very soon you'll remember everything. Very soon you'll feel like yourself again. Belle, I must ask for your patience for a short while longer. I promise you, what I need to do now is urgent, or I wouldn't make you wait. It must be done now, for all of us to be safe, for me to protect you. Will you trust me, Belle, please? I know this must be frightening—"

"No," she interrupts, cocking her head and looking at him closely. "I was afraid before, in the room, but I—I know you."

"Come with me, then, please, and I promise I'll explain everything soon."

He leads her out the back way to the Caddy. Before they leave the safety of the shop, he scans the street: a few pedestrians are about their business, but Regina is nowhere is sight. He can feel the curse crackling in the atmosphere, like static electricity before a storm. Any minute now, the savior will kiss her son, bringing him out of his eternal sleep, and then all hell will break loose.

He glances at the sky. _Thank You. Even if it's just for a moment_—for he dreads that when she knows the truth of who he is and what he's done, she'll run. He opens the car door. "Belle, I need to take you to a place nearby."

She's smiling as she slides into the passenger seat; she runs her hands across the rich red leather. "Is this a car? I've seen them on TV, but never for real. It's beautiful."

He reaches over her to fasten her seat belt. "Yes, this is a Cadillac." Which I'll trade in for a Lamborghini one of these days. What he really wants to ask is _Where have you been that you have never seen a car?_ She must not be pushed, however; clearly, she's traumatized already. He's confident she will recover, however; her_ joie de vivre_ hasn't been crushed, only suppressed.

He starts the car and pulls out, this time obeying the speed limit; he must not attract attention. "Belle, we're going to a special place in the forest a few miles out of town. There is something I must do there; it will give me what I need to keep us all safe. I promise I'll explain it completely once we're safe."

She rests her head against the window and watches the scenery pass by. He wonders if she's suffered physical trauma as well as the emotional trauma that's apparent. As soon as possible, he'll take her to Dr. Whale for a complete physical, and then to Dr. Hopper. Whatever she needs, however long it takes, he'll remain at her side. . . as long as she'll have him. They'll take it one day at a time.

Except. . . he recalls his own experience when the curse broke for him. He dreads the moment for her when she's flooded with voices and images from her previous life, when his mind split into two. He'd had the advantage of understanding what was happening to him and why; she would not have that knowledge. Nor would Snow, Charming, Red or any of the others.

They need him.

He's never before felt the need to be in two places at once, but right now he'd give his eyeteeth if he could clone himself, send his double back to prepare the town for the cursebreaking. For the moment, all he can do is drive and try to assess Belle's immediate needs. "Belle, are you cold?"

"No."

"Hungry? Thirsty?"

"Pizza—I've always wanted to taste pizza."

He chuckles. "We'll get you a pizza very soon. And a change of clothes—"

"The Gap. I'd love to shop at the Gap."

"Okay. . . .Do you feel well? Are you injured anywhere?"

"I'm fine."

"Belle. . . where do you live?"

She tears her gaze away from the road and stares at the dials on the dashboard. After a long moment she answers, "In a room."

"Where is the room?" A boarding house? A hotel? But not in Storybrooke; he would have seen her. Has she somehow come from Fairytale Land—has the barrier been breached already?

"I don't know. There were stairs. . . the room was at the bottom of the stairs. There was a man with long black hair and a broom. There was a woman, Nurse Stern. She brought me food, took me to the restroom. And some days she took me to the TV room; those were good days. And there was a doctor, Dr. Whale. He came sometimes to give me pills."

Rumplestiltskin grips the steering wheel and his teeth. Whale has just joined Regina on Rumple's hit list. "It's all right, Belle. Soon you'll remember everything."

She falls silent for a moment, then exclaims, "You're not Mr. Gold."

He glances at her, smiling hopefully. "Do you know my name?"

"No." Then she smiles. "But I will."

"Yes," he squeezes her shoulder briefly. "You've always been a fighter, Belle. You're going to be fine."

They arrive at his cabin. He longs to take her inside, run a hot bath for her, cook her breakfast, light a fire in the fireplace and wrap her in a quilt and sit her down in the rocking chair, give her everything she needs, all the time she needs. He adds another black mark against Regina's name for robbing Belle of the recovery she should have.

He leads her from the cabin through the woods and though she's perplexed she follows without argument. He glances to the sky and wonders what's holding up that damn cursebreaking kiss. It's rocky terrain, so he takes her hand, and because of his limp they can't move as quickly as they should. "We're going to a special place, Belle, a water well that's older than any other structure in this part of the state. The waters below the well issue from a lake called Nostros. The waters are said to have the power to return that which one has lost. A war is about to start. It's with this power that I can prevent that."

She hesitates, panic edging her face. "Ogres?"

_She's starting to remember, even though Emma hasn't lived up to her end of the savior bargain yet._ "No, no ogres here, but there is an evil woman—"

"Regina." Belle's expression blackens.

"Yes! You know Regina?"

Belle's lip curls. "She talks to me sometimes, and Nurse Stern and Dr. Whale talk about her when they think I can't hear. She's a vicious, conniving, hateful, sad person who wants to kill our hope."

"Yes, but I can stop her."

Belle picks up the pace. "Let's move it, then. Where is this well?"

"Belle, did I ever tell you how proud I am to know you?" He struggles to keep up with her.

Suddenly the earth beneath their feet shakes, the trees they cling to for security shake, the sky itself shakes and currents of air, like crashing sea waves, gather and roll and break. The savior has fulfilled her destiny—Henry has come back; the Curse to End All Curses has been broken.

Belle comes under the shelter of his arm, steadying him as well as herself. "Has the war begun?"

"No, Belle," he raises his face to the sky and grins. "Freedom has."

The currents wash over them and he surrenders to them like dry earth surrenders to warm rain. There are no additional memories to come to him, but he finds himself standing taller and he realizes his knee has straightened itself. He is both younger and older than he was a moment ago: he is Rumplestiltskin, a centuries-old creature from a distant place, and he is strong again.

He watches Belle as her face changes from confusion to serenity to joy, and he's reassured she will be all right. She too seems to grow taller and stronger. The earth stops shaking and the air quiets. . . and she withdraws from him.

"All you all right, Belle?"

She nods.

"Do you hear voices, see flashes in your head?"

"Yes. Don't leave me!"

"I won't leave. Don't be afraid; it's your memories coming back."

She shakes her head to clear it. "It's gone now."

He holds his breath. She remembers—which means she remembers everything, including the monster he was.

She confirms it. "Rumplestiltskin! I remember."

He freezes. One foot stands on hope, the other on fear. But she gives him firm ground to stand on with her laugh. "I love you!"

Now he is truly free. He reaches for her and she comes without hesitation. They cling to each other as though nothing else exists, and he buries his face in her hair, swallowing his tears. This is so much more than he ever, ever could have dreamt. No magic could have brought this; it must have come from the Source, the One True Morning Star, and Rumple can never in a thousand lifetimes pay it back.

But then, he realizes, he doesn't have to. The True Morning Star doesn't deal; He gives.

Rumple kisses the top of her head. "I love you too, Belle. Always and forever."

She presses closer and raises her face; he lowers his. There is no Dark curse for their kiss to break, but when he presses his lips to hers, he breaks nonetheless and heals stronger than before. For such a wise old being, he surprises himself with how little he knows: her kiss teaches him the wholeness of love. In her kiss he finds forgiveness, admiration and passion, and a promise she will always offer him those gifts. Joyously, he gives his own promise back to her. She is his link to everything: the past and the future, magic and power, the earth and the life beyond it.

"Always and forever," she agrees.

He releases her but takes her hand again. "Soon we'll have time for ourselves, but—I'm sorry, Belle—this has to be the time to fight."

She raises her chin and the warrior in her rises. "Regina's at gates. Let's go."

They reach the well and with just a moment of hesitation for a brief thought flung to the skies—_Let this work; please let this work; and give me the fortitude for one more war_—he drops the vial into the well, releasing True Love's magic into the world. A billowing purple cloud pours out of the well, spills onto the ground, swirls around their feet and spreads and rises, blocking the earth and the sky from view.

He feels the change instantly. It's faint at first, beginning in his toes and fingertips, but soon his entire body heats and tingles. He feels the magic seeping into his pores, seeking his blood, finding the course to his heart and his brain. He remembers the moment—for it happened so rapidly, it was just a fraction of a moment—the Dark curse came upon him, how feverish it felt, how chaotic, how inescapable; this is different. This magic is calming, reassuring. He breathes it in.

"We're in a land without magic, and I'm bringing it," he explains, taking Belle's hand. "This is how we fight Regina."

Doubt creeps into her voice. "You've brought another curse?"

"No, not at all. The Dark One is gone forever, Belle. This is True Love's magic. This magic can't be used for evil."

"But it _is_ magic," she frowns.

"It's necessary. This magic is protection." He gives her a moment to take it all in. "I know I haven't earned your trust, but I have to ask for it. Believe in me. I won't let you down this time."

She watches the purple cloud thin out as winds blow it to the east. "If this is magic, does Regina have it now too?"

"Very little, but once she figures out how to use it, she'll find a way to acquire more." He's calling upon his hypotheses now; there's no way he can know for sure. "Only those who are capable of true love will receive the magic I've just released."

She smiles slyly. "And you have this magic now?"

In answer, he waves his hands in an x shape. The loose white gown and oversized coat that she's wearing are replaced by a robin's egg blue tunic, jeans and hiking boots. It may not be an outfit The Gap would carry, but it will be comfortable on their walk back to the cabin. The work of altering her clothes requires little energy, but he does feel a drain of power; he realizes it will take some time for his reserves to be fully replenished. He won't be able to indulge in teleportation—or magic-fights—any time soon, but then, neither will Regina. Nor will Regina have the benefit he's had of nearly a year's practice.

But what she will have on her side that he now lacks is ruthlessness. She won't care who gets killed.

"You have the magic too," he informs Belle. "All who are capable of giving and receiving love can access this magic."

"No," she blurts. "I don't want it."

"It's not evil, Belle. But it's entirely your choice. This magic is a gift, not a curse." He looks to the east, where the purple cloud has dissipated. "We must go back now. But before we enter Regina's territory, will you let me teach you one small defensive maneuver? In case something happens to me, you need to be able to protect yourself."

"I don't want it. Magic will change me."

"This magic is the product of pure love. It can't be used to hurt anyone. Please, a defensive spell."

When she grants his request with a sharp nod, he bends, locates a pebble of greywacke and presses it into her hand. "Keep this in your pocket. When you need to, hold it tightly in your left hand, close your eyes, imagine this pebble growing into a stone, into a boulder, into a wall, and concentrate on these words: _lapidem in murum_. Say it, please."

"_Lapidem in murum_." Her mouth drops open. "I feel something. Inside me, it's shaking."

"Don't be afraid. That's the magic awkening. Imagine the pebble, imagine the stone, imagine the boulder, imagine the wall, and say it again: _lapidem in murum_."

She closes her eyes, squeezing the pebble. For several minutes nothing happens; he starts to worry she won't be able to protect herself after all; but at last a six-foot wall of greywacke appears all around her and he laughs. "Very good. Now imagine in reverse: wall to boulder to stone to pebble. And say _murus in lapidem_."

"_Murum_—"

"No, _murus_."

"_Murus in lapidem_." The wall shrinks and disappears.

"Once more." He makes her practice it a second time. There would be a third rehearsal if they only had time, but they must return to Storybrooke before Regina starts casting spells. They walk more quickly now, he without his limp, she in sturdy shoes. When they reach the car and he opens the passenger door, he says, "I love you, Belle."

"I love you too, Rumplestiltskin." She's grinning, her eyes dancing; in just these few minutes, she's changed. He wonders how much of it can be attributed to the curse breaking and how much can be attributed to the reclamation of their love. She may leave him yet, he realizes. She knows so little of Rumplestiltskin's and Gold's histories. When he discloses himself—him_selves_—to her in full—and he will, because she can't love half a man—she may run in horror. Even if she can't stay with him, she will love him; he can feel that now.

In fact, now he can feel everything.


	26. Chapter 26

Twenty-Six

He parks behind the library; no one walking down Moncton Street will see his car. "Wait here a moment." He leaves Belle in the locked Caddy and edges around the library, then throws himself back against the building, for he's just seen a crowd of twenty or so of his fellow Storybrookeans marching westward down the middle of Moncton. He suspects they're heading for the pawnshop, since the mayor's mansion would have taken them north. If they're after him, they must already have Regina.

Leading the lynch mob—for he must assume it to be so, although right now they look more bewildered than angry—are the Blue Fairy, Emma, Snow and Charming. Rumple is pleased to see Henry walking beside his mother; Gold would have been relieved to know the boy is up and about so soon.

Hopper is not among them, but Rumple assumes that if both Emma and Charming are on the street, they must have placed Regina in a secure place, perhaps with Hopper babysitting: the jail is the likely answer. He reclaims Belle and when the crowd has passed, he leads her to the sheriff's office. He carries his cane with him, though he'd really like to break it into tiny pieces; he's not ready yet for anyone else to notice the changes in him.

In the hallway, they stop. "She may be testing her magic. Best wait here, Belle."

Belle seizes his arm. "You won't kill her, will you?"

"It would better for all of us if I did."

"But you won't."

He winces. "Not unless I have to." He leaves her in the hall.

His guess is correct: Regina is locked in the cell and she's concentrating on its lock, her hand shaking, but having no success. Even from the entrance he can feel her magic; there's so little of it she would be lucky to break a pencil in two, let alone break an iron lock. He's not sure if her magic, like his, will strengthen in the coming days. If not, she will seek a way to steal someone else's. If they've been close enough to imprison her, they've been close enough for her to detect their magic; she will take from anyone who comes near her, even her own son.

One possible salvation exists: the magic may not allow itself to be stolen. Perhaps, then, she will find a way to trick a naïve victim into giving it willingly.

Henry must be kept from her at all costs.

He enters the sheriff's office, startling Regina. "Magic is different here, dearie."

She has nothing to barter with, nothing to threaten with, and the coldness in his eyes warn her against an attempt to appeal to his mercy because he has none for her. But Regina is quick on her feet, he must grant her that; she plays the common enemy card. "They're looking for you now. They want this to be a joint hanging. Or beheading, if Charming wins the coin toss. Let me out and we'll fight together."

He leans on his cane and says nothing, making her sweat. She persists, "You have some magic; I can smell it on you. I have some magic. I just need a little time to adjust. Neither of us alone has enough to fight off that mob. The only way you'll survive is to side with me."

His eyes enlarge and his lips spread in a thin smile, like a cat with a mouse trapped between its paws. He calls out, "Please come in."

As Belle comes to his side, Regina stumbles back from the bars. Her legs smack against the cot and she falls backward into a forced sit. She curses in a low voice.

He forgets about his intention to disguise his healed knee; he flies at the cell, grabbing the bars and yelling, "What did you do to her? What did you do to her?"

"A bargaining chip, that's all," Regina stutters. "I never touched a hair on that prom queen head of hers. Look at her: unmarked. Pretty as a—as a china teacup."

Without a word Belle turns her back to the cell and pulls off the tunic.

Her back is striped with long white scars.

Rumple shakes the bars and reaches an arm in as far as it will go, but Regina eludes him. "I'll have you for this. I'll use your own stunt on you. I'll rip your heart out and crush it beneath my boot—"

Belle has replaced her blouse and now rests a hand on his grasping arm. "No."

"I cannot let this stand, Belle. I will not let this stand!"

"Promise me, promise me you won't give in to your hate."

"What she's done is beyond forgiving."

"I won't have our love dishonored by hate. Hatred will imprison you. Hatred is the true dark curse, Rumplestiltskin. Keep her in prison, yes, so she can't hurt anyone else. Pursue justice, but not revenge. Promise me: not revenge. If you love me, promise me!"

He bares his teeth to Regina. "All right, I promise. For your sake, Belle, I'll just stand back and watch. Perhaps I'll provide the guillotine."

He takes Belle's hand and seats her on the couch. "We'll wait here for the sheriff, lest the prisoner attempts a jailbreak." He smacks his cane against the cage, then seats himself beside Belle. Just to verify Regina's suspicion, he snaps his fingers and produces a glass of iced tea for Belle.

Regina watches him closely and purses her lips.

Belle thanks him for the tea, but remains firm. "Justice, not vengeance," she reminds him in a low voice.

Regina hears this and her mouth quirks up. Rumple is beyond _her _manipulation, but not Belle's, so she prepares an indirect appeal to the other woman. "What happened?" She makes her voice sound wounded. "To us. We were friends for as long as I can remember. My mother told me you were there practically at my birth, bringing gifts. And when I was sixteen and in torment, who came to me, offering understanding and solace? Have you forgotten our picnics, our long talks? And when my husband died—"

"When you arranged to have him murdered," Rumple corrects.

From the corner of her eye, Regina watches Belle; the young woman's expression is softening. "You came to comfort me, to teach me. Two years you lived in my castle, as my mentor and my friend."

"I taught you how to control the magic you'd acquired by selling your soul to the devil."

"Yes," Regina says slowly. "You taught me how to destroy with it, how to kill. When I was at my weakest, you twisted me in your gnarled claws and you made me hate, and then you made me kill."

"That's a lie."

"Is it? Who created the curse that brought us all here? Maleficent knew in a heartbeat it wasn't me: she said its creator was so monstrous he made the rest of us look moral. And to enact the curse, what did you tell me I had to do?"

He remains silent.

"You ordered me to kill my own father. Rip his heart out."

Belle is staring at the floor; her hand makes the ice in her glass rattle.

"Hmm, yes, and then there were all those little people you killed on your climb up the ladder. Just because you could, wasn't it? Just because killing amuses you. Let's see, there were some of the duke's men, simply obeying orders; a cart driver; a fairy godmother—" Regina points at Belle. "And the woman who kept house for you, just before Margie here."

Belle jerks and drops the glass. It shatters, sending shards and tea across the concrete floor.

"You're no better than me, Rumple, my darling," Regina purrs. "We're peas in a pod. One could almost say, 'Like father, like daughter.'" When Belle gasps, Regina blinks innocently. "Oh, did he not tell you about his relationship with my mother? In this world, we'd call it statutory rape. I always wondered why I looked so little like my mother's husband. And here we are, side by side, Mr. Gold—or are you calling yourself Rumplestiltskin now? How alike we are. The same coloring, the same frame—"

Rumple waves his hand and a zipper appears across Regina's lips. "Don't believe her, Belle," he says between gritted teeth. "She's taken a fragment of truth and constructed a lie. I'll break her in two—"

"Are you breaking your promise to me, Rumplestiltskin?" Belle presses.

"She's trying to come between us—"

"She can't. Only your rage can come between us. Are you breaking your promise to me, Rumplestiltskin?"

"_You made a deal with me. Are you backing out?"_

He releases a breath and with it, some of his anger. He answers both Belle and Bae: "No."

"And don't worry that I'll believe her lies. Trust me, just as I trust you." Belle begins to pick up the broken glass, but he snaps his fingers and the mess disappears.

He lifts her to her feet. "I am guilty of many things, but not in the way she claims. When there is time, I'll tell you everything, and then you can judge. But for now we must pursue justice before it's too late." He stands. "Before she escapes." He whistles a single note, stretching it, and holds out his index finger: a robin flies in and lands on the perch he's offering. "A message for Snow White."

The bird cocks its head.

"Tell her to come to the jail, please."

The bird bobs its head once and flies away.

"What are you going to do?" Belle asks.

"In this world, justice is decided not by a king or queen but by a judge and a jury. I'm asking the community to put Regina on trial."

"And execute her?"

"That will be the jury's determination." Long minutes tick by. Deep in his brain, he hears an echo of the Dark One laughing. If he can prevent her from rebuilding her powers until the trial has concluded, Regina will shoulder the consequences for his crimes as well as her own. Any such stories as the ones she's told Belle will be ignored, though people might suspect their veracity; he will skillfully spin her half-truths back onto her. Rumplestiltskin will walk away unscathed, untroubled, his lady at his side, his riches awaiting him; he must indeed be the Deceiver's favorite.

Deep in his heart, he hears Gold: "_I told you, magic comes with a price._"

_And Regina's answer, "Henry shouldn't have to pay it."_

"_No, you should_."

No, **we** should, Gold tells him now.

He glances at Regina, who struggles to work her lips to curse him.

His vow, long forgotten, returns to him: _Each time he looks upon her, he will see not just the Evil Queen but the fresh-faced sixteen-year-old who'd come to him for help, and the three-day-old whom he might have rescued if he hadn't been such a selfish bastard._

She must answer to justice. But he, whose crimes overshadow hers, must stand before the jury beside her.

He takes Belle into Emma's office, safe from Regina's ears. "Belle, some of what she said is true. I have to answer to justice too."

Belle gasps.

"I have killed. I have stolen, I've—I nearly beat your father to death when I believed that you had died at his bidding. I was the Dark One in this life as well as the old. I have to answer, too. When the others come back, I'm going to ask for justice."

"There you are," Emma bursts through the entrance and marches right up to the man whom most of her constituents fear. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, Gold. Why you tricked me, what you did that caused that explosion or whatever the hell it was, that atomic cloud—"

"Magic," Rumple answers. "Allow me, please, to first introduce Belle. She comes from our world; the curse brought her here as it did us."

By now Snow and Charming have caught up and stand beside their daughter. Everyone else stands back. Rumple is saddened to see that the princeling fears him now; Henry takes shelter in Granny Lucas' protective arms.

"I don't recall seeing you before," Snow wonders, but she smiles a greeting at Belle. "My name is. . ." she hesitates; the others listen closely, for she will be the first to refer to herself by her true name. She turns her face up proudly. "I'm Snow White, wife of James, mother of Emma, grandmother of Henry." She indicates each family member in turn, and they all nod a greeting to Belle.

Belle answers her question. "I was kept locked in a small room in a basement."

Snow's mouth drops open and Emma reaches for her notepad, begins scribbling. The sheriff mutters, "Regina."

"All this time?" Snow asks gently. "We know now that it's been almost thirty years, though, because of the curse, we were somehow outside of time."

"As you appear to have been," the Blue Fairy comments, studying Belle.

"Sometimes it seemed. . ." Belle struggles to find an answer. "Sometimes it seemed there were days passing. There was a window, too high for me to see out, but daylight came in, and darkness. And there were TV days, and days when Dr. Whale would come, and days when she"—Belle indicates Regina—"would come. But the days seemed to be stuck on a wheel. The same ones came up over and over."

"Hopper's got a lot of work ahead," Grumpy mumbles.

"We'll take care of you, Belle," Snow touches her hand in reassurance.

Charming redirects the conversation. "Rumplestiltskin! You were about to tell us about this new curse you've subjected us to."

"That was True Love's magic that I released into the atmosphere," Rumple snaps.

"Never heard of such a thing," Charming says. "I think you're lying."

Rumple gives him a wry smile. "It came from you, dearie." When Charming grunts, Rumple continues, "Back in the old country, just before I gave the curse to Regina—"

Murmurs arise at this new information. Until now they'd assumed he was a victim of the curse, as they were, albeit a less-than-innocent one. Belle glances at him hastily; he's hardly building a case for himself.

"Back in the old country," he continues as though uninterrupted, "just before I gave the curse to Regina, I formulated its antidote: True Love, which I managed to reproduce by mixing your DNA with Snow's. Your love was the purest and the strongest in the realm, and I believed if I could reproduce it magically, I could harness a power greater than any ever known, greater than this curse we've been living under for thirty years."

"That egg thing you stole from me," Emma gripes.

"That egg thing that you fought a dragon for this morning, with your father's sword."

Charming gapes at Emma.

Snow picks up the questioning. "This True Love that you 'released into the atmosphere.' We saw the purple cloud after we remembered. So what did True Love do?"

"Tell me, little princess, what's in your heart right now. Not your mind; your heart."

She considers. "What's in my heart is. . . is James and Emma."

"You're a tough one, Emma. What's in your heart right now?"

The sheriff squirms in her red jacket. She resents being put on the spot, being required to address her _feelings_ in front of all these people. "That's none of your business, Gold."

"Fair enough. Grumpy? What's in your heart?"

The handyman shrugs and throws a quick glance at one of the nuns. "She is. . . Nova."

The nun squeals and throws her arms around Grumpy. "You're in my heart too!"

Rumplestiltskin turns to the Blue Fairy. "And you? Who is in your heart?"

With her answer, it's clear that the Blue Fairy has already decided to remain in the convent. "My Lord."

Henry forgets his fear and runs at Emma, surrounding her waist with his arms. "My mom's in my heart."

From her cell, Regina, still zipped, turns her face to the wall.

Emma leans into the boy and whispers, "I love you too, Henry."

"This is how it begins," Rumplestiltskin informs Charming. "True Love's magic. Those who give love unconditionally and who receive love unselfishly will have access to the magic. Those who abused love"—everyone looks at Regina—"will not. And those who turned away from love" —he hangs his head—"will pay a price."

"'Magic'?" Charming repeats. "'Have access to magic,' you said. Literally, magic? Like what you and Regina had in the old world?"

"Literally, but not like what she and I had. Not capable of evil. The magic can be accessed only in a state of love and used only the same way."

Grumpy snorts. "What a crock."

Belle raises her voice. "A moment, please." She reaches into her pocket for the pebble, which she holds up for all to see before she clutches it. She closes her eyes—she's imagining the stone, Rumple knows, and even if this doesn't work she's so brave to try, and he's so proud of her. She recites the spell: "_Lapidem in murum_."

A boulder appears between Belle and Snow.

"Better stop there, my love," Rumple advises. "The wall could cause damage in here."

"Yes, darling." Belle closes her hand around the pebble again and recites, "_Murum_—"

Rumple corrects her, "_Murus_."

"_Murus in lapidem_." The boulder vanishes. "True Love's magic," Belle declares. "Those who love and are loved have this power."

Henry approaches Belle. "Can I try that?"

"Of course, but let's prove the magic isn't in the rock; it's in you," Belle suggests. "If you'll find another rock, I'll teach you the spell."

While Henry goes on his mini-quest, his grandfather continues the questioning. "Do you have magic now?"

Rumple bows his head. "I do."

Emma catches on. "You, Gold? You love somebody?"

"Always and forever," he replies, and Belle comes into his arms.

Charming raises an eyebrow. "So. . . the 'flicker of light in an ocean of darkness'?"

"I was wrong. She's the moon, ever constant, always drawing me near."

Charming shrugs at Belle. "Well, good luck to you then. You're going to need it."

"And Regina? Does she have magic?" Snow asks.

Henry returns and Belle kneels to teach him the spell.

"I don't know for sure," Rumple answers honestly. "I think she will have a little, less than the rest of us, but I believe she did love someone unselfishly, once, and did not abuse the love she received from him. But she's already figured it out." They all look at Regina and she tosses her head defiantly. "All she needs is enough magic to break out of this jail. After that, if she can find a way back to the old world, where she can make deals, build alliances, acquire more power. . . ."

"She has to be stopped," Granny blurts. "We can't go through this all over again."

"I'm afraid, Mrs. Lucas, that she wouldn't settle for a curse this time," Rumple replies.

"Fairy dust," Mother Superior suggests.

"That would do nicely," Rumple agrees. "It prevented me from accessing my magic when I was at the height of my powers."

Mother Superior turns to Nova. "We must go back to the mine."

"You'll need a miner, then," Grumpy volunteers.

"Dreamy and I will go; you're needed here, Mother Superior," Nova says. "I promise I won't mess this up."

The former Blue Fairy considers this and nods. "Wait, then." With a questioning glance at Rumple, she moves her hands through the air, and in a puff of smoke Nova returns to her fairy form and Grumpy gains a pick axe and a bag to collect the dust. "How can they go back?"

"The mine at the edge of town. Go all the way in, as far as you can go. Where the mine seems to stop, you'll find a painting on the wall, a green-eyed dragon. Strike the dragon with your pick, Grumpy. The wall will open and you'll find yourself"—Rumple gives a harsh laugh—"in the prison you built for me. You'll find all the fairy dust you need in its walls."

Snow has the grace to look a little embarrassed at the irony.

Mother Superior urges, "Please be careful. And hurry!"

Henry digs into his pocket and produces a set of keys, which he tosses to Grumpy. "Take Regina's car. It's the fastest in town."

Emma gives her son an odd look. "Henry!"

The boy deftly changes the subject. "Look, mom!" He casts the boulder spell.

"Hmph! I got to try that."

"In the meantime, Mother Superior," Rumple bows to her, "if we work together, I believe we can stave off any attempts the prisoner might make to access magic."

"Agreed, Rumplestiltskin." She offers her hand in friendship. One day they will have a long talk in private.

"So the question is, now that we've got her, what do we do with her?" Charming addresses his people. Various suggestions are made, all of them with the same outcome: Regina's slow and painful death. Only Mother Superior makes a counter-suggestion: banishment to a land in which she can harm no one.

Snow says quietly, "Then you must mean, a land without people. Wouldn't that be worse than death?"

"Excuse me, aren't you getting ahead of yourselves?" Rumple shouts out for attention.

"What do you mean?" Granny asks. "The sooner we get rid of her, the better."

"You've sentenced her before she's even had a trial."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Charming groans.

"Before this was a world with magic, it was a world with laws. If we don't follow the laws of this world, there will be repercussions. The magic will see to that."

"It's going to be a short trial," Granny snorts.

"Fine. We take a vote," Charming relents. "All those in favor of a trial, raise your hand."

Snow's is the first, then Mother Superior's, then Henry's. One by one all raise their hands. "All right then. If there's a trial there's got to be a judge, a jury—Mother Superior, you're the most likely candidate for judge."

"I'll do it."

"The prosecutor—that's me," Charming volunteers.

"A defense attorney," Rumplestiltskin adds. "Your Honor, I'll need some time to prepare a defense."

Granny snorts. "You'll need an eternity to prepare a defense."

"One week, Rumplestiltskin," Mother Superior decides.

"You're offering to defend her, Gold?" Emma is impressed. "After what she did to your girl?"

"Yes, I'll defend her. I don't hear anyone else offering to, and I made a promise to Belle to seek justice."

"This is some sort of plot you've got going on with her, isn't it?" Charming speculates. "You've always been in cahoots with her."

"Well, then, it's a good thing I'm defending her instead of prosecuting, isn't it?"

* * *

**A/N. Breaking canon again by relocating the "I will not let this stand" scene. It didn't feel like a good fit for the previous chapter. It seemed to me Belle and Rumple needed a little more time for explanations and kissing before Rumple jumps into destructor mode.**


	27. Chapter 27

Twenty-Seven

Rumple needs Gold.

Of course, Rumple has access to Gold's entire knowledge base and skills set, but it's the personality he needs right now, if he's to maneuver Regina—and himself—through this trial. Gold's unflappability, his cold-bloodedness and his duplicity are what's needed; Rumple resents having to rein in emotions or worse, project emotions he doesn't really feel. For so long, his powers granted him extraordinary freedom of expression. But he's got a town full of people to manipulate, and he doesn't have to review the facts of Regina's case to know he can't take an intellectual approach: the evidence screams guilt. He's going to have to turn these people around emotionally.

He thinks, as they say in the movies, Regina should throw herself on the mercy of the court.

"Everyone listen up," Rumple calls for everyone's attention. "There's something very important you all must remember. You all have a small amount of magic; without some training, if you attempt to use that magic you could harm yourselves. And most importantly: magic can be stolen or conned away, so please do not approach the prisoner at any time."

"Wow," Emma whistles. "I guess I better slide her meals in on a ten-foot pole."

As the citizens mill about, lacking direction but hesitant to separate from each other as long as Regina is still a threat, Rumple takes Snow aside. "I know you have enough of your own to cope with right now, but I must ask for your assistance."

She frowns a little. Possibly she thinks he's got another dragon that needs slaying; after all, that seems to be a consistent pattern in his dealings with her family. But to a large extent the soft-hearted Mary Margaret still lives in Snow, so she responds politely. "What can I do for you, Mr. Gol—Rumplestiltskin?"

"I'll be quite preoccupied over the next week—"

She smiles. "Yes, defending Regina's bound to be a monstrous task."

He lowers his voice. "Until now, Belle has never been out into this world. She has nothing, knows very little about how things work here. I understand that you and your family will be quite busy becoming acclimated, but if you could spare a few hours for Belle. . . ."

"I'll give her the grand tour of the town," Snow offers.

"She'll need clothes and a coat; what she has on now is all she owns. A hair cut, personal items. She may like some jewelry. All the bills can be sent to me at my home address. I would ask Ruby to take her, but I don't think they'd have the same tastes in fashion. Belle's mentioned wanting to go to a shop called the Gap. . .?"

Snow chuckles. "Yes, I can take her there."

"Thank you, Snow. What can I do for you in return?"

"The 'thank you' was sufficient payment, Rumplestiltskin. Good luck with your client." Snow moves over to Belle, speaks a few words, and soon the women have set a lunch date for the next day.

"It will be some hours before Nova and Leroy get back," Charming announces. "I suggest that you all go home and try to sort things out there. If anyone runs into Hopper, send him here. We'll ring the church bell if anything changes." He walks over to the cell to check on the prisoner, then he nudges Rumple. "Oh, hey, the—" he makes a zipping motion across his lips.

"Oh. Yes." Rumplestiltskin snaps his fingers and Regina's zipper disappears. Immediately the building is filled with her rants. "Are you sure you don't want me to change it back?" Rumple asks dryly.

The crowd disperses, leaving the Charming family, Belle, Mother Superior and Rumple behind to guard the prisoner. "Come on, Henry, let's go get some sandwiches for everyone. Belle, would you like to join us?" Snow suggests, leading her grandson outside, out of hearing of his former mother's unladylike language.

Belle drops a quick kiss on Rumple's cheek before following Snow out. Charming watches her go, shaking his head. "Her. . . and you," he mutters. "No accounting."

"I'll need some time to consult with my client, alone, please," Rumple informs Emma and Charming.

"Not so fast," Emma declares. "I'm not leaving you alone with her until that fairy dust's brought in. You might—" she waves her hands in a mockery of his spellcasting.

"Are you afraid I'll let her out—or turn her into a fly and swat her?"

"No telling with you."

"Very well, then." He turns to Mother Superior. "Your Honor, I may have to call for a dismissal of the charges on the basis of improper police procedures." Rumple snaps his head up, listening to the words pouring out of his mouth. Now he's thinking like Gold! "You did, I presume, read my client her Miranda rights?"

"Fine," Emma growls. "David and I'll be in my office." She leans in and squints at him. "My glass office. Ten feet away. Where I can see everything."

"Mother Superior, care for a cup of coffee?" Charming escorts the nun into Emma's office.

"That could be construed as bribing the judge," Rumple calls after them. After they've made themselves comfortable in the office—openly glaring at him though the window—Rumple fetches a cup of water from the drinking fountain and brings it to Regina. He uses a little magic to float the paper cup into the cell, so that he doesn't have to come within arm's length of her.

"This is a farce," Regina gulps the water, crumples the cup and tosses it at him. He sidesteps and the ball of paper hits the wall. He seats himself on the arm of the couch, close enough to speak confidentially but not so close as to risk being touched by her.

"All right, what do I have to give you? I know you like my car; how about that? Or are you holding out for my house?" Regina paces like a sleek panther trapped in a dog kennel.

"No deals, dear. This is for real. I promised you once I'd try to keep you from going too far; you've already gone as far as I can allow."

"So you're just going to sit there and gloat, free as a bird, while I pay the price for both of us."

He's dead serious now. "Justice has caught up with me, too. As soon as you've had your day in court, I'll have mine. I suggest, in the face of overwhelming evidence, you plead guilty immediately. The longer you drag this out, the more they're going to remember about you."

"I know you, Dark One," she grabs the bars and sneers. "You're a coward through and through. You'll squirm your way out of this, like the slimy maggot you are."

"I'll take that as a 'no' to the guilty plea, then." He folds his hands in speculation. "All right. Let's review your case and look for loopholes, beginning with how you acquired your magic."

She rattles the bars. "Let me out, damn you. I wouldn't be here if not for you."

His gaze drops to the floor. "That's an accurate statement. But it doesn't change the fact that you committed all the crimes Charming will accuse you of, and a great many he doesn't know about. You have to pay, Regina. You committed these offenses of your own free—" He pauses, thinking. And then it's his turn to pace. Running a hand along his mouth nervously, he strides from one end of the jail to the other and back.

Emma, still watching him, rises from behind her desk, just in case.

When Snow, Henry and Belle return with box lunches for everyone, Rumple stops pacing. He takes Belle aside, takes her in his arms, speaks to her earnestly. Her eyes fill with disappointment, but she nods. He kisses her and releases her. They join the Charmings in Emma's office.

"I must ask another favor of your family," he says to Snow. "I'm sorry to ask at such an unsettled time, but I need to leave town for a day or two, to locate a witness who's essential to Regina's case. Could Belle stay with you while I'm gone? My house is quite large, with bedrooms enough for all."

"You're offering us use of your house, Gold?" Emma asks.

"Yes."

"All four of us?" Snow adds, and Charming grins; he realizes that Snow's inviting him to live with her.

"There are four bedrooms, and the study has a fold-out couch, should it be needed."

"I was wondering how we'd all fit into my little apartment," Snow says. "This will give us a night or two to figure it all out."

Rumple hands a set of keys to Snow. "I'll be leaving immediately. Just one thing: please don't go into the basement."

"Why? You building a Frankenstein down there?" Emma speculates.

"Something like that." He kisses Belle. "I'm sorry. I'll be back as soon as I can. When Leroy gets back, he'll know what to do with fairy dust. Just don't let Regina close enough to touch anyone."

"Thanks, Rumplestiltskin," Charming says. "Just don't assume this buys you any special favors with the prosecution."

"You may be surprised to hear this, King James, but it's important to me that Regina gets a fair trial—because mine is next."

"What are you talking about?"

"I too expect to face justice."

* * *

His powers are not yet strong; he really shouldn't be making this trip. But there's no time to waste, so he hunts down the madman in his mansion on the edge of town. The Hatter has been taking it all in from behind his telescope.

"So when's the execution?" he wants to know. "Save me a front row seat."

"I imagine you'll be called to testify." Rumple says as Jefferson lets him in. "Not, however, for the defense."

"Well, that's good, because I'd hate to disappoint you. What did you come for, Rumplestiltskin?"

"First, to thank you. How did you know where Belle was?"

"Because Regina tried the same thing on me for a few weeks, until she decided it would be more fun to park me within sight of my daughter. But you let me down, Rumple. Why haven't you killed Regina yet? Belle did tell you it was Regina that locked her up, didn't she? Regina that ordered the heavy sedation?"

"I'm aware of those crimes, yes. Belle will be testifying for the prosecution." Rumple takes a seat on Jefferson's couch.

"No, I don't think you're getting it. Belle was in that ten by twelve padded room twenty-four hours a day for twenty-eight years. No visitors, no phone calls, no Internet, no books, but plenty of drugs. Hallucinatory drugs, on occasion. And that's mild compared to the dungeon dear old Regina had her in, in Fairytale Land. What Charming's guards did to you in your prison was a Sunday picnic compared to what Regina did to Belle before the curse hit. But that's okay," Jefferson waves the pair of scissors he's been holding. "Don't take it from me. When Belle wakes up screaming in the middle of the night, you'll find out for yourself."

"I intend to."

"So what's this crap about a trial? What a waste of time. We'll all be a lot safer when you draw and quarter her, chained to a pair of monster trucks driving full speed in opposite directions."

"I came to deal, Jefferson."

"Oooh no, no, no, no." Jefferson pushes back the top hat he's wearing for a clearer view of his guest. "I'm out of business. Grace is my life now. The few minutes I get to watch her in the morning, walking to the school bus, and coming home in the afternoon."

"I need to go to Wonderland."

A foul word escapes the Hatter's lips. "That's the last place I'd ever consider."

"It's for Regina's defense."

The Hatter leaps to his feet and hoots. "Buddy, you just don't know when to quit, do you?"

"Two days of your time. It's an odious task, I'll grant you, but you'll want to take this deal."

"They call me the crazy one."

"Grace."

The Hatter sits back down again. "What?"

"I can give you Grace. You're aware of my experience in family law. I can get you joint custody. Grace will have summers and holidays with you." Rumplestiltskin praises his inner Gold for this scheme. "No trial necessary. I'll work it out with the other family as soon as Regina's trial is over."

Jefferson falls silent. He turns the scissors over and over in his hands. Finally he blurts, "Regina screwed me over twice. Why would I believe you?"

"How many deals have you had with me, Jefferson?"

"I dunno. Ten, eleven?"

"Thirteen. How many times have I screwed you over?"

"The thing is, a guy never gets exactly what he thinks he's getting with you."

"That's not quite accurate. Typically, a guy never pays exactly what he thinks he's going to pay, because so few take the time to read the contract." Rumple snaps his fingers and produces a document typed in large print. "Read the contract, Jefferson. I'll be back in one hour."

* * *

He needs magic, ASAP. While Jefferson examines the contract with, literally, a magnifying glass, Rumple runs around town raiding his cache, and then he dashes to his cabin. With the treasures stacked up on his bed, he extracts the magic from each, ending with the spinning wheel. He staggers under the influence and wonders if he could be arrested for Driving While Magically Intoxicated. After a change of clothes from the oppressive Hugo Boss suit to his gold silk shirt, leather pants and alligator boots and jacket, he feels faster than a speeding bullet, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound.

He has one last task before he can jump in the Caddy. It's something he's never attempted, never even imagined attempting, and will take all the power he's just acquired. He will be running on empty when he arrives in Wonderland, and that's not the sort of place one should be powerless in, particularly considering what he's going to attempt there.

But because of the rules of magic, he must take the risk or wind up with no defense for Regina. He sits down on the stool and lays his hands on the now ordinary spinning wheel. It eases his mind, allows him to organize his thoughts.

For nearly an hour he struggles—in vain. Exhausted, he rests his forehead on the wheel. _Please._

"Rumplestiltskin." A soft feminine voice arouses him and a finger taps him on the shoulder. He jumps up to find a woman—no, she's shimmering and floating in mid-air—a fairy? No, she's too tall and she's not wearing those silly high heels the fairies wear.

Whatever she is, a woman of indeterminate age and origin stands behind his loom. She's not human; he senses magic radiating through and around her. He breathes in, expecting to identify her by her magic, but it doesn't smell like anything he's familiar with. Not the brimstone of a demon, not the treacle of a fairy, not the ash of a witch or the clover of a leprechaun. This one's magic smells like—freshly baked bread. Like the bread Saer used to bake, flavored with butter Rumple brought home from market.

"Do I know you?" he asks. "You're familiar."

"I've been in and out of your life," she replies. "But you haven't noticed."

"Who are you?"

She places her hand over his heart and stands on tiptoe so her eyes are level with his. "Look and see."

He looks into her eyes. They're blue like the sky over Loameth, they're green like the sheep lands of Tardolith, they're brown like the rich soil of Asurwen. Her magic pulls at him; he has the sensation he's falling, though his feet are firm on the wooden floor. He tries to back away from her, but he's caught. He grasps her hand to remove it from his skin but his hand softens, rests upon hers as she continues to press against his heart.

"Don't be afraid, Rumplestiltskin. You've known me all your life."

In her eyes he is taken through clouds and sky, over rivers and forests. He lifts his head to break the spell and he sees not the stranger but Clotild standing before him, smiling a welcome. He sighs and she becomes Saer, his milky eyes hers now, and the old man touches the bruise on his cheek, healing it. Rumple blinks and she becomes Hamond, bandaging a sword cut to Rumple's forearm. Rumple flinches and she becomes Baelfire, age five, throwing his arms around his papa's waist.

Rumple breaks free of her. "What sort of witch are you?"

She sounds insulted. "I'm not a witch, Rumple. Can't you feel that? I've come to help."

"Your name." Names are power.

"Helewise."

"My sister's name."

"Yes, I was your sister once. I'm a messenger, Rumplestiltskin. You have True Love's magic; use it to know me."

He grips her shoulder and pulls some of her magic into his blood. After a moment he knows. "You come from the Source."

"Yes, the Morning Star—but not that liar you've been calling the Deceiver. I'm a messenger of the True Morning Star. You've seen me before, many times, working through other people. I've been trying so hard to get your attention, but it seems you've only recently learned how to listen, and your hearing still leaves much to be desired."

"I work for the Deceiver. You must know that."

"Make that _worked_. Past tense. Sometimes you have. We think you're working for us now. I was sent to encourage that, and to help. May I have one of Gold's jackets, please? I like the blue pinstripe."

Still perplexed, Rumple roots through the closet for the requested jacket. When he offers it to her, Helewise puts it on. She tilts her head down to fasten the single button; when she raises her head, she's no longer Helewise: she's Gold. "Let's go to Wonderland," Gold suggests in his Americanized Scottish brogue.

* * *

He returns to Jefferson. "You're late," the Hatter smirks as he allows Rumple to enter. Jefferson's about to challenge the contract on that basis, but then a second man brushes past him and sits down on the couch, grinning and watching Jefferson and Rumple standing at the door.

"Who—" Jefferson points at the intruder.

Rumple nods. "He's me. The Storybrooke me. But then, you already know him."

Jefferson closes the door and approaches cautiously, walking around the couch to examine the intruder. "Yeah, he is. How—I don't think I've ever heard of any sorcerer, not even a Dark One, pulling off this kind of stunt."

The intruder reaches out a hand. "Good evening, Jefferson."

"Gold." Flabbergasted, Jefferson shakes Gold's hand. Over his shoulder he asks Rumple, "You—you took this Storybrooke character Regina stuck you in, and you made him real?"

"Science, Jefferson," Gold shrugs. "If scientists can clone sheep, why can't a sorcerer clone himself?"

Rumple interrupts. "We're running late. We need to get to Wonderland."

"And what are we looking for there?"

"We're going after Cora."

Jefferson tosses the contract in the air. "Forget it, then. I'm out."

"You don't have to do anything but get us there and back."

"Yeah, I've heard that before."

"Need I remind you?" With magic Rumple raises the contract into the air and makes the name "Grace, heretofore known as Paige" dance.

The Hatter bites his thumbnail.

"Jefferson," Gold adds quietly, "what do you think Cora's likely to do when she sees Regina again? Regina, who's locked into a fairy dust cage, powerless. You recall who trapped Cora in Wonderland, don't you?"

"Give me a pen."

* * *

They're standing in Jefferson's kitchen. The furniture's been pushed back to make plenty of room for the hat, which the madman sets upside down on the parquet. Jefferson shakes his head. "I can't guarantee—" he waves his hand at his two guests—" this. I don't know how the magic's going to react. It's different here anyway, and then you throw a monkey wrench into it."

"Should I take that as an insult?" Gold asks Rumple.

The wizard looks back at his clone. "I wish you'd worn something more appropriate."

"This is appropriate for me. Or have you forgotten me already?"

"I don't know what's going on here," Jefferson growls, "and I don't want to know." He sighs. "Two Rumplestiltskins. What fresh hell is this?"

"To bring Cora back, I have to leave someone behind."

"Yeah, yeah, I know: three go out, three got to come back in. Hat's rules. But why didn't you bring one of the dwarves or something? My mental health is precarious, you know. I don't think I can handle two Rumplestiltskins, even if one of them's wearing a tie."

Rumple shrugs. "He might come in handy. Remember, he's a silver-tongued devil."

"Fine. On the count of four."

"Why not three?" Gold inquires. "The traditional count is three."

"Because I like four. One, two, three, four jump!"


	28. Chapter 28

Twenty-Eight

**A/N. Now we're coming to the loose thread I wanted to tie: Estrilda.**

* * *

In the circle of doors, Gold comments, "'The Lady or the Tiger.'"

"More like 'The Tiger or the Tiger,'" Jefferson sniffs.

"You really don't like your work much, do you?" Gold says.

Each door lights up invitingly in turn when Rumple looks at it and darkens when he looks away. One of the green doors, he remembers, leads to Oz: he wishes now that the Emerald City was their destination. He feels comfortable there; he understands Oz, whereas Wonderland is beyond all understanding.

The door to Wonderland appears to be a mirror, reflecting the gateway room and all the twenty-three other doors, but as they approach from an angle Rumple can see the mirror's surface ripple, reacting to the vibrations of their footfalls. Jefferson's mouth tightens as he touches the mirror, his fingers sinking in, the watery surface reshaping itself around the intrusion. "Last chance. Sure you wouldn't rather visit Shangri-La or Utopia?"

"I'd rather visit my bed," Rumple shrugs, "but that's a fantasy land I seldom have the chance to visit any more."

Gold throws a mischievous grin at him. "You're such a stick-in-the-mud."

Rumple sniffs. "That's my line. I'm the leather pants and Lamborghinis guy, remember? Proceed, Jefferson."

The mirror yields as Jefferson passes through. Rumple follows close behind, then Gold. Surprisingly, the substance of which the mirror is made doesn't feel wet at all; as Rumple enters, he feels an icy wind against his skin. But once he's on the other side, he's hit with the humidity of a tropical climate. Bird calls out of tune and out of synch spread the warning that intruders have arrived. They follow a brick trail through a jungle of pointy-leaved plants and house-sized toadstools, ignoring the repetitive inquiry of a hookah-smoking caterpillar.

"Every time I come here, I feel like I'm in a Timothy Leary watercolor painting," Rumple remarks. He picks up the pace: the road is long and Belle's waiting at home.

They're dripping sweat and Gold has unbuttoned his suit jacket when they arrive at the Queen of Heart's garden maze. "Mind the walls," Jefferson warns as they pass under the arch.

"Let's make this easy on ourselves," Rumple suggests. He raises both hands slowly, then brings them down again quickly, and a gray frost appears, covering the entire maze. "Sleeping spell," he explains. "It'll hold until we're long gone."

"Subtle," Jefferson comments. "When I brought Regina through, she torched the place."

"Regina likes to make a statement."

"So where to first?"

Rumple takes the lead. "The center."

"You sure?" Jefferson hesitates. "That's where the queen keeps her, uh, collection."

"It won't be by the time we're through."

They follow a narrow walkway to a gold-domed mausoleum. The doors to the tomb are locked, but Rumple makes a dialing motion with his finger and the lock spins, popping the doors open. The interior is comprised entirely of a wall of narrow drawers.

Jefferson looks around worriedly. "You'd think she would've placed a squad of guards here after the last time."

"Safe deposit boxes?" Gold guesses. Banks are something he understands; banks, savings and loans, credit unions all make him feel warm and cozy.

"Of a sort," Rumple answers. He studies the drawers for a moment, then makes a decision: with a snap of his fingers he shrinks the entire mausoleum to the size of a baseball, and he tosses it to Jefferson.

"Oh no," Jefferson tosses it back. "You know what she'll do to me if she catches me with this?"

"You have pockets," Rumple slaps his leather pants. "I don't." He tosses the mausoleum back.

"Well, he has pockets," Jefferson tosses the mausoleum to Gold.

"Well then, do you want to be the one who stays behind when Rumplestiltskin takes Cora back through the hat?" Gold tosses the mausoleum back, and with a groan Jefferson pockets it.

Rumple shakes his head in annoyance at his companions, then resumes the march through the maze. He's following not the path, for the patterns on the bricks change color constantly; nor the sky, for the position of the sun shifts with them, as though following them. Instead, he's being guided by the bird calls, for the birds are relaying messages to the queen.

To Estrilda.

"Halt!"

Iron-helmeted, pole axe-bearing guards run from all directions, trapping the travelers in between. "About time," Rumple remarks to the man with the tallest helmet, who he assumes is the sergeant. "We've been in protected territory for nearly ten minutes. You realize, of course, I'll have to report this sloppiness to Her Majesty."

The guards don't answer—indeed, cannot; they have no voices, by order of the queen; that way, they can neither argue with her nor plot against her. The guards prod the travelers along to an expansive plaza, the centerpiece of which is a royal stage box with a single throne. Spear-carrying guards and mask-wearing nobles line the path that leads to the box. Rumple walks faster, leaving the guards behind.

A man in red ermine stands slightly behind the seated queen, over whose head is draped a red veil held secure by a diamond tiara. The queen communicates with her lackey through a rubber tube.

"Come come now, Estrilda, is this any way to treat guests?" Rumple chides. "Take off that silly veil so we weary travelers may gaze upon your refreshing beauty."

The lackey listens into the rubber tube, then translates. "Rumplestiltskin the Coward! You have intruded upon our solitude. You were not invited and are not welcome. What do you have to say for yourself before we rip your heart out and add it to our collection?"

"Really, my dear, your manners have deteriorated since we saw each other last. The Deceiver would be embarrassed."

"Don't speak to me of the Deceiver!" the lackey shouts. "The Betrayer, the Abandoner, has left me here to languor, without even the solace of death to look forward to."

"Indeed?" Rumple glances at Gold with a raised eyebrow.

Gold smiles, "We can work with that."

"Fifty years, has it been?" Rumple addresses the queen again.

"One hundred and fifty!"

"How time flies."

"Who is this—this pale copy of you? And why the ridiculous clothes?"

Rumple runs his hands along his leather pants. "I happen to find this outfit quite—"

"No, _his_ clothes," the lackey points at Gold.

"Ah. Well," Rumple bows low and gestures to his companions to do the same. "This is Gold, my, uh—"

"Pale imitation," Gold supplies with a shrug. "From Storybrooke, town of a thousand stories."

"And Jefferson you may remember, considering your guards chopped off his head."

The Hatter keeps back, warily watching the hatchetman.

"It's been a rather tiresome journey, Your Majesty. May I?" Without waiting for an answer, Rumple snaps his fingers and provides lawn chairs and tall glasses of iced tea for his partners. "Would you care for a tea, Your Majesty? Or a Bloody Mary?"

"You have two minutes to tell me why you've intruded and then I chop off your heads."

"'Off with his head,' 'off with his head.' After a hundred and fifty years, one would think you'd have come up with at least one variation on the theme. But, since you asked: we've come to take you on a little vacation."

The lackey listens but the queen gives no reply.

"Speechless, are we? I should think so. An offer like this comes along only once in, oh, a century? Allow me to present my plan. You see, a mutual acquaintance of ours is about to undergo a trial—you know about trials, don't you, Your Majesty? And I'm assisting in her defense. Now admittedly, she's done a great many horrible things, one might even say, unspeakable—although I suppose that's an oxymoron. She has done a great many terrible things but alas, she refuses to admit guilt, so there we are. Not a leg to stand on. So since I can't disprove any of the accusations against her, I plan an insanity defense. Unlike here, in Storybrooke insanity is considered an undesirable condition. If I am successful, she will be locked away in an asylum for the rest of her days—which is, come to think about it, not so unlike here, and not so unlike the punishment she inflicted upon you, Your Majesty."

The rubber tube hisses and the lackey explodes, "Regina!"

"Regina." He leans forward in his chair. "It's time for Regina to serve justice, Estrilda, and I need your help to make that happen."

The tube is quiet.

"I want to take you back to Storybrooke and put you on the witness stand. I want you to explain how Regina acquired her magic. Knowing my neighbors as I do, I believe they will take pity on her, but will be terrified when they learn of the company she's kept, and I believe they will lock her away. At least, I hope they will, because if they choose to execute her, there will be all hell to pay." Rumple sips his tea, giving the queen time to think.

A whisper rolls through the tube. "Don't make me come back here. That's my price, Rumplestiltskin. Let me stay in this Storybrooke."

"You don't belong there, Estrilda. Besides, you know as well as I: Wonderland must have a ruler. My pale counterpart here will sit on the throne while you're gone. I'll take you to Storybrooke for the trial, but then you must come back. But it will be a comfort, won't it, to see Regina serve justice?"

"That's my price, Rumplestiltskin. Take it or leave it."

Rumple crosses his legs and sips his tea. He waits, but the Queen of Hearts waits him out. After a long moment Rumple rises, makes his glass and his lawn chair vanish. He bows. "Very well, then, we'll take our leave. Good day, Your—"

"Wait," Gold steps forward. "If you don't testify, they'll execute her. She's your daughter, your only child. Can you let that happen? You're responsible for what she became." When the queen doesn't answer, Gold persists. "You're the Queen of Hearts. Don't you have one of your own? Don't you love your child?"

"She has no heart," Rumple places a staying hand on Gold's shoulder. "She sold it to the Deceiver long before Regina was born."

"A stolen heart can be restored," Gold says desperately, and Rumple scowls at him, lest he give away the fact that he carries a mausoleum full of stolen hearts in his pocket. "Save your child."

Another whisper comes up the tube, and the lackey translates. "Off with her head."

Rumple turns and starts to walk away, Jefferson following.

"Wait!" Gold marches up the steps leading to the throne. With a disdainful slap he knocks away the spears poking warnings at him. "All right, I'll take your place here. Testify for Regina and I'll stay here in your place." He clenches his fist. "But know this: you'd better do your damnedest to convince that jury, or I'll come after you."

"Gold, are you sure of what you're saying?" Rumple runs up the stairs to stand beside his copy. "This place is insanity without relief, and you won't even have death to look forward to. It's forever, dearie."

"I'm sure."

"It's _Regina_. Is she worth your life, Gold?"

"A soul is worth a thousand lives."

"Are you forgetting: Regina has no soul either. She made the same deal as her mother."

Gold clenches his teeth. "Those deals are invalid. Why do you think we call him the Deceiver?"

"But Regina and Estrilda made the deals willingly. They don't deserve—"

"It's not about what's deserved, Rumplestiltskin. It's about what's given." Gold tries to smile comfortingly. "Those are rules my kind plays by. The rules of True Love." He offers his hand to the queen. "Do we have a deal?"

The queen releases the rubber tube, places her hand in his and he helps her rise.

Rumple points a finger at the lackey. "You're staying." He snaps his fingers and a medallion appears around the queen's neck. "A micro-computer," he explains. "It'll translate your voice. Some of Storybrooke's magic." He embraces Gold, who looks a little embarrassed but returns the embrace. "Goodbye, Gold. Goodbye, Helewise."

As Rumple escorts the dethroned queen down the steps, he glances back. Gold scowls at the throne, removes his handkerchief from his breast pocket and dusts off the seat, then he sits. Gold glares at the lackey. "You're dismissed."

* * *

Her hand on his arm is so cold he can feel it through his sleeve. She has so little magic left that she feels brittle. The Deceiver has indeed abandoned her here. "You're surrendering your title. I suppose you realize that?" Rumple asks.

"A title without power." Her voice is frail coming through the computer.

"You'll have none of that either in Storybrooke. You'll be. . . a peasant again."

She raises a hand to her head and removes the tiara. "I'll be free." She flings it aside and it clatters on the bricks.

Jefferson trails along behind this strange procession. He shakes his head. "Wow." He glances back at Gold. "Just. . . wow."

* * *

"There's something different about you," Estrilda remarks to Rumple, then glances over her shoulder at Jefferson. "And you." She ducks her head into Rumple's shoulder; through the thick veil he can see the outcome of Regina's revenge: the face of the sad sixteen-year-old he married has been replaced by the repulsive visage of a wasp. He gulps but doesn't pull away; he remembers the face he wore for three centuries, before he became Gold.

He glances backwards and feels empty.

"Your magic smells different. Like honey. Is that what this Storybrooke smells like?"

"That's what freedom smells like."

"Yes, I can see the Dark One has left you. But how? I know of only one way—and you seem to be quite alive." Her hand on his arm tightens. "Unless—This smells like their magic—the magic of the Source's minions. Have you counterfeited their magic? Oh, husband, what a brilliant idea! _You_ are the real Deceiver!"

"I'm not a counterfeit and I'm not a demon—and I'm not your husband," Rumple snaps, then he calms himself. This is the lynchpin of her sorcery: her manipulation. He can't let her gain a fingerhold on him or Jefferson.

"What are you, then?" She asks gently. "You have become quite handsome, not so far different from the kind man I married. Tell me, Rumplestiltskin, do you still spin beside the fireplace on a cold winter's evening? I still read, as you taught me."

"Be silent," he commands. He looks to Jefferson. "She'll start on you next. Don't let her. You don't need her schemes or her flattery. You have Grace."

"And you, Rumplestiltskin? What do you have?" When he doesn't answer she persists, "Obviously you have magic and power, and I suspect you have riches, for you always did like your comfort. Hmm, what are we missing from this list? Let's see now. . . oh yes, Bae. Your son who turned against you, as my daughter turned on me. Or has he come back, Rumplestiltskin?"

Rumple stops short and glares at her. "I have True Love's magic."

Her hand drops from his arm and she draws back in horror. "True Love. . . How did you steal it?"

He resumes walking and she scampers to catch up. "Or was it Bae? Did you find Bae and he forgave you?"

He doesn't reply.

"Is it a woman?" She pushes. "Did you trick—no, you couldn't have. It's not True Love unless it's given and returned unconditionally. Rumplestiltskin, are you _loved_?" She stops and trembles, but he keeps walking. She seizes Jefferson's arm. "Is he? Does he have love?"

Jefferson says nothing but he grins wickedly.

* * *

When they are returned to the kitchen, Jefferson collects his hat and packs it away immediately. "I don't know what you've got in mind, imp, but I hope it doesn't include me. Oh, here." He reaches into his coat pocket and hands Rumple the miniaturized mausoleum.

Estrilda notices the transaction and peers at the object. "A duplicate of mine—an exact duplicate." Then she begins to shriek. "What have you done? How dare you steal from me?" She grasps at Rumple's hands, but he slips the mausoleum into his shirt and snaps his fingers. He intends to conjure manacles to bind Estrilda's wrists, but the magic will not allow it; so he settles for a protective barrier surrounding himself. When Estrilda grabs at his shirt she receives an electric shock.

"That's my power; give it back!"

"Stolen property must be returned to the original owners."

"What are you talking about? What are you going to do with my collection?"

Rumple reaches across to the medallion and flicks a switch: the translator shuts off and now the only sound emanating from Estrilda is a rapid buzz.

"More to the point," says Jefferson, "what are you going to do about our contract?"

"Fear not, once and future father. As I promised, as soon as the trial is over, I'll arrange for joint custody." Rumple seizes Estrilda's arm. "I'll be back in a few days."

"Don't try to screw me over."

"My agreements are always honored, Hatter." Rumple snaps his fingers.


	29. Chapter 29

Twenty-Nine

He's drained, he's dirty, he's hungry, but he's home. Or close to it. He slumps on the blue Naugahyde couch. He thinks he must make a contribution one of these days to the sheriff's department so Emma can buy some decent furniture—and then he smiles because those are Golden thoughts. In a whisper he asks, "Gold? Are you in there?"

No voice answers him, but he suddenly craves ice cream and opera. He reaches inside his shirt to check on the tapestry; it's still there, still binding his family together, and now when he thinks of it he'll think of Helewise too.

"What have you done?" Funny how like her mother's Regina's voice sounds as she shrieks.

Rumple props his feet up on an arm of the couch as he rests his head on the other. With a flick of his wrist he employs that zipper again, and Regina can now only grunt and squirm. He says tiredly, "I realize it's been a while, but surely I don't have to make introductions, do I?" He pries one eye open to double check: yes, the jail cell now sparkles with fairy dust.

Boots stomp across the concrete and a light perfume floats overhead. Without opening his eyes, he greets the sheriff.

"So, that's her, huh? Does she really have a face like a hornet?"

"Uh huh, and the voice. The medallion she's wearing is a translator. If you want her to talk to you, you'll have to turn it on. I'd suggest you use a little magic to do that so you don't have to touch her—or Regina."

"You think it's smart, putting them in the same cell? We do have a second cell."

"Estr—Cora has a little magic, so we'll have to get Grumpy back in here to dust the second cell before we can move her. As long as the fairy dust holds, they're no threat to the rest of us. Of course, they could strangle each other." Rumple rolls over, his face to the back of the couch.

"Save us a lot of trouble."

"You're not allowing visitors, I assume."

"Not even Henry."

"That's wise." He yawns. "Emma, would you do me a little favor?"

"Sure."

"Call Belle, let her know I'm. . . " A snore finishes his sentence.

Emma pats his shoulder. "Home."

* * *

He's been gone three days. He'd forgotten the time difference between Wonderland and the Real World.

His houseguests, all but one, have moved out; they're now renting Jefferson's west wing, comprised of six bedrooms and two baths; the identical east wing still provides Jefferson sufficient living space.

"Three days," he groans, tossing the water from his hair as he steps out of his shower. Three days that Charming has had to prepare arguments; three days that Rumple has lost. He patters from the bathroom to his bedroom and opens his closet. On the left is a row of silk shirts, leather pants and motorcycle jackets; on the right, a row of color-coordinated suits and French-cut cotton shirts.

He sighs and grabs a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the dresser. He folds the tapestry into the jeans pocket.

Belle is waiting at the foot of the stairs. Her hair has been cut a few inches and she wears it pulled back to show off her new pearl earrings. She's wearing a pullover sweater and jeans and—most importantly—a smile. She throws her arms around his neck and he lifts her, swinging her around, then sets her on her feet again so he can tilt her head back and kiss her.

"Are you okay, Belle? Has it been all right?" What he's really asking is _Do you still love me? _He has cause to worry: her education of the past three days has probably included a great many horror stories concerning the man whose house she shares.

"I missed you. It's been fine. Emma took me all around town. Snow took me shopping. In the evenings we sat out in the garden."

"The garden is dead this time of year."

"It felt good to be outside just the same." She leads him to the kitchen table, where platters of food have been set out. "I've learned to use the refrigerator and the microwave and the stove." She pours a cup of coffee and places it before him. "And the coffee maker and the dishwasher and the blender and the cell phone." As she urges him to sit, she dishes great heaps of food for him. "This is an amazing world, Rumplestiltskin. Yes, I'm okay."

But after he tells her what he needs to tell her, that could change. Not yet, though, not yet. They've earned one day of happiness, have they not?

* * *

Emma, safe in her office, is munching a bear claw and snickering. She watches the exchange through the glass pane, and the three voices are so loud she can hear everything.

"You have to change her back," Rumple is shouting. "Now, Regina!"

"She deserves this. This is a just punishment for everything she did to me and Daniel."

"I was looking out for your future, darling! And time proved me right. You married a king! A king got down on his knees and proposed to you! A king, on his knees to you!"

"I didn't want a king, Mother! I wanted Daniel. He was the love of my life and you killed him. You didn't even give us a chance—"

"For your own benefit, Regina. He was nothing, a stable boy! Yes, he was handsome and virile, but he was poor as dirt and he smelled of horses and that would not have changed. If I had allowed you to run off with him, one day you would have awakened to find you'd married a man who couldn't afford to feed your children. Instead you had—"

"I had a babbling milquetoast who put me in a corner and ignored me! I had—"

"Enough!" Rumple roars. "I'll bring back the zipper if you don't shut up. I can't put her on the witness stand like this. When the jury looks at her, they'll be thinking how cruel and inhumane you are that you did this to your own mother. Change her back, Regina, and do it now before anyone besides Emma can see her."

Regina thrusts her hands on her hips. "Now how am I supposed to do that when you stole my magic and locked me in this fairy cage?"

"I'll take you out and restore your power long enough to do it."

Regina purses her lips and smiles sweetly. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

Rumple calls over his shoulder. "Sheriff!"

Emma drops her bear claw and grabs her keys. She's been looking forward to this ever since Rumple introduced the idea an hour ago. She's just itching to see what Regina's mom looks like under that ve—whoa.

Cora's removed her veil. Emma clutches her stomach. That bear claw's about to come back up.

"Sheriff, please," Rumple urges.

Emma takes a swig of coffee to wash the bear claw back down. She's a law enforcement official; she's handled traffic accidents; she can handle this. "Hands out," she orders. "You know the drill."

Regina pushes her wrists beyond the bars, and Emma snaps a pair of handcuffs on. And then for good measure, Emma snaps a second pair of handcuffs on. "You too, sister." Emma snaps one handcuff onto a bar of the cell; the other, onto Cora's wrist.

"Ready, Gold?" Emma checks with Rumple.

"Ready."

Emma unlocks the door. She grabs a handful of Regina's hair and yanks, and with the other hand she presses her gun into Regina's back. "All right. Out."

As soon as Regina is out, Rumple slams the door shut and relocks it. Emma lets go of Regina's hair and raises her now free hand above the mayor's head. From the front, Rumple does the same. Together the sheriff and the attorney recite something that Regina recognizes as a binding spell. "What the hell?" she shouts.

"A preventative," Rumple explains. "Now your magic. Just remember, Regina, this is True Love's magic. You can't raise cain with it." As Emma pokes the gun into Regina's back and clutches her hair again, Rumple casts a second spell. Regina's mouth drops open and she tosses her head back, breathing heavily. Her cheeks flush, her lips plump and her pupils dilate and she gasps.

Emma raises an eyebrow. "Looks like she's having an—"

"Yeah," Rumple says dismissively. "For some, it's like a dose of heroin. For others, it's—more visceral." He squeezes Regina's arm painfully. "That's enough. Now cast the spell. Out loud, so I can hear you."

Regina licks her lips and mumbles some words rapidly. He gives her a shake. "That's not it and you know it." He glances at Emma. "She was trying to turn me into a frog. The magic wouldn't accept the command. Cast the correct spell, Regina. Now!"

Regina shouts some words and Estrilda's head snaps back. Her face begins to shift and slide, and in a moment she's a brown-eyed, oval-faced woman again, her rich dark hair done up in a tidy bun.

Emma and Rumple both sigh in relief. Rumple withdraws the magic from Regina and Emma pushes her back into the cell, locking the door. She unfastens the prisoner's handcuffs, then drops onto the Naugahyde couch. Rumple drops beside her. "We got to get that second cell dusted, pronto. Hope it's a short trial," Emma remarks. "Getting these two in and out of the courtroom's going to be a pain in the ass."

"I can't speak for the prosecution, but I expect the defense to go rather quickly," Rumple replies, with a disgusted look for the prisoners.

"Do you really think she's got a chance?"

"A chance of being convicted or a chance of being exonerated?" Rumple shrugs. "We all have a chance, Emma. I'm counting on that." With a great show of reluctance, he gets to his feet. "May I borrow your phone, Emma? I need to get Hopper over here for a psychiatric examination of my client."

"Going for an insanity plea?"

"Not exactly."

Emma looks at him closely. "You and Regina haven't exactly been BFFs in the time I've known you. If I was you, I might just be tempted to use my position to double-cross Regina, make sure she gets locked away permanently—or executed."

He looks back at her equally closely. "Would you really?"

She shakes her head. "Guess not. But you're a cut-throat, aren't you? Kidnapping Kathryn, framing Mary Margaret. . . ."

"Got some research to do." He stretches to ease the cramp in his back. "A gansta's work is never done."

* * *

There's a new nun in town. She's replacing Nova/Astrid, who's discovered that her true calling is to be the wife of a handyman. And so Charming, in his role as mayor pro tem, has called for a party: it's to welcome her, but also to celebrate the breaking of the curse.

Rumplestiltskin is not invited. And because he's not invited, Belle has been left off the guest list too. He's angry, not for himself—when he was Gold the landlord he was on the list for every formal party; the town was too afraid to not invite him. It's for Belle's sake he's angry. After all, isn't she a newcomer too and deserving of welcome?

After a long morning in the sheriff's office questioning his client and his witness, he's even more irritated. He'll show them he doesn't care about the snub; he'll take Belle dancing tonight.

But what about the next party? And the party after that? Belle craves social interaction; it's necessary to her healing, after twenty-eight years of near isolation.

Perhaps it's time to start thinking about moving.

He's packing his briefcase and doing his best to tune out the bickering coming from the two women in the jail cell when Emma and Henry come in. "Hey, Mr. Gold," Henry chirps. He's got a comic book in his back pocket and a wad of bubble gum in his mouth, and Rumple feels better just watching him. This is a whole new boy.

"Gold," his mother echoes Henry's greeting. They're the only ones in town who refer to him that way; he suspects to them he'll always be Gold.

"Hey, Henry, Emma."

The boy scoots himself onto one of the desks. "Hey, Mr. Gold, I got a question. Mom says I should ask you first, since Belle's your sweetheart."

"Hmm. Should I be worried about where this is going?"

"Well, kinda, but not really." Henry spits his gum into a tissue and sits up straight. "I want to ask Belle for a date. If it's okay with you."

"A. . . date?" The boy's first crush?

"Yeah. To the party tonight. If it's okay with you."

Emma sets her hands on her son's shoulders. "And I would like to ask you to be mine."

"Me? Wouldn't that stir up trouble?"

"Henry and I got invitations that say 'plus one.' They _didn't_ say 'plus one except for Gold and Belle." Emma winks at him. "Besides, I'm a little old for Dad to be telling me who I can go out with, considering I'm a year older than him."

Rumple chuckles and gives Emma one of his old-fashioned bows. "I'd be honored to escort you, Princess. And Henry, you have my permission to date Belle, just this once."

He swallows his pride and goes to the party and makes nice. For Belle.

When he's introduced to the new nun, he feels her magic just as soon as he shakes her hand. He wonders if there's still some magic floating around in the air for newcomers to absorb—it's something he hadn't considered before. But her magic is so strong, so. . . sure of itself that he thinks she must have possessed it a long, long time.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Rumplestiltskin," she's saying. She has to lean toward him a bit to be heard over the music.

"Welcome—" he says, and then blinks. _She smells like freshly baked bread_. "To Storybrooke," he concludes, his voice trailing off. Henry is waiting to be introduced to Sister Beretrude, so Rumple has to step aside, but spends the rest of the evening staring at the newcomer and wondering.

* * *

Grumpy has coated the second jail cell with fairy dust. Rumple can feel it from as far away as Regina's office: it drains his own magic and everyone else's, so when he and Charming and Emma relocate Estrilda to the second cell, they have to do it the old-fashioned way, with handcuffs and guns and hair-pulling. Regina is the one putting up a fight: surely she realizes she can't escape; even if she did, she's have a lynch mob hot on her heels and any chance of a lesser sentence coming as the outcome of a trial would be out the window.

The fairy dust in the second cage may not even be necessary. Estrilda, already rather frail in Wonderland, seems even more so now. Rumple doubts whether she has enough magic to move a feather. He asks a doctor to examine her, and under police escort she's taken to the hospital for tests. During the day she's gone, Regina sits on her bed, staring at the empty cell next to hers and smirking.

A diagnosis comes back that startles everyone, a diagnosis unheard of in Fairytale Land: osteoporosis. "But people with magic don't get sick," she protests. Returned to her cell, Estrilda draws herself into a ball and tries to ignore her daughter's taunts. She's getting just a small sample of the punishment she deserves, Regina argues. Since Storybrooke won't bring Cora to justice, nature will.

A hasty meeting of community leaders is called. By a vote of 2-5, it's decided Estrilda—or Cora, she's refers to herself—can stay in Storybrooke after the trial—under house arrest. Mother Superior provides the answer to the question of where: she will be accepted at the convent.

When Mother Superior makes the offer, Regina goes ballistic. Her mother is literally getting away with murder, and all because the people of Storybrook didn't personally know any the people she murdered—Regina names seven and claims there are more whose names she doesn't know.

"She's not on trial; you are," Emma snaps. "So shut up or I'll get Gold to bring back the zipper."

"You will be under Beretrude's supervision," Mother Superior makes the introductions. Beretrude pokes her hand through the space between the cell bars and offers a handshake, which Estrilda, after some hesitation, accepts. When their hands make contact, Estrilda startles; Rumple wonders if she's sensing Beretrude's magic.

"You will work," Mother Superior continues. "You will cook and clean and launder and garden. You will rise at 5 a.m. with Bernadette and Beretrude and me, for one hour of prayer before breakfast. You will participate in all our worship services and you will assist me with office work. At eight p.m. you will join us again for an hour of prayers before we retire for the night. Ours is an austere life but perhaps you will come to find it as satisfying as we do."

"What is my choice?" Estrilda asks.

"I made a promise," Rumple says. "You won't have to go back to Wonderland, but I won't return you to a land with magic. You may choose one of the other lands without magic and I'll take you there."

"And you, Rumplestiltskin? You whose crimes are as bad as mine and Regina's." Estrilda gains some physical strength from her words. "What will your punishment be? Or do you escape all penalties because your magic is stronger than ours?"

Rumplestiltskin walks away without answering.

* * *

From the bar, Ruby and Billy cast secretive glances at him. They bend their heads over their margaritas, then whisper wildly to each other. Rumple can hear every word. He doesn't give a damn that they're shocked and amused. He doesn't even care that his moves are nothing like Jagger's. All he cares about is that the there's music playing and the White Rabbit is lit with candles and Belle is in his arms and they're dancing.

He presses Belle closer and buries his face in her hair and she rests her head against his shoulder.

* * *

The next morning, he's not sure if what he did last night is exactly fair. There was an element of manipulation to it, and it was definitely self-serving, but an evening of dinner and dancing made Belle so happy, and she deserves that, doesn't she?

And he needs it. That memory may have to last him a long time.

* * *

He meets with the Prosecution to share evidence under the Model Rules of Professional Conduct. Not being an attorney, Charming's never heard of these rules, but he doesn't need for Rumple to drag out the law books; he agrees the trial should be run, as he says, "on the up and up." He's pretty sure they've already violated rules right and left, anyway.

Charming slides across the table a file folder six inches thick. "My evidence."

Rumple slides across the table a single sheet. "My evidence."

Charming blinks and picks up the sheet. "Four witnesses. That's all?"

"I expect it will suffice."

Charming reads the names. "I don't think you can do this." His eyebrows shoot up and he points to one of the names. "Or this. Can you?"

Rumple shrugs. "This is a highly unusual situation, James."

"Okay." Charming adds the sheet to his briefcase and stands. "Well, good luck. And thanks for the use of your house."

"Thank you for helping Belle. Good luck to you too."

* * *

This evening after dinner—the pizza she's been so eager to try—he leads her into the living room, where he lights a fire and pours glasses of wine, and then in the quiet, in the flickering firelight, with her snuggling against him, at long last he keeps his part of their deal: he tells her his tale. Everything. He tries to explain but not to excuse himself, and he gives himself credit when he can.

She buries her face in his shirt and cries.

She does not turn away.

And when he gets to the part about Bae, he cries too.

* * *

In the morning, she's waiting at the foot of the stairs. There are circles under her eyes; she has not slept well. He hesitates on the last step. If she's to leave him, this is how she'll do it: face to face, because she's no coward.

But he sees no packed bag waiting by the back door. He does see a platter of pancakes. He takes the last step.

She comes into his arms and she's crying again, but she bites her lip and raises her face to his. "I'll see my father today. He's probably wondering why I haven't called."

"I'll come with you. I have an apology to make."

She nods. Neither of them can guess whether Moe will accept the apology, but for Belle, the apology itself is proof of change. "Emma told me she was a hunter of criminals before she came here. She can find people. She can find Bae. Should we talk to her today too?"

His eyes light. He can't help it; he _hopes_. But he shakes his head. "Not yet. I don't want him to see me until—" he can't find the right words. "Belle, after Regina's trial is over, I'm turning myself in. I may be in jail a long time." He doesn't mention the other possible sentence, the one he expects to receive.

"Who will speak for you, the way you're speaking for Regina?"

"I'm going to plead guilty. There won't be a trial."

Belle pursues him as he moves through the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee and preparing toast. "You—you can't do that! It isn't fair. You're the one who insisted Regina should have a trial, and you're taking all this time to defend her even though you hate her. So why does she have a chance to defend herself and you don't?"

"Because I'm guilty, Belle, and I want to get this over with." He sets his cup down, the coffee untasted. "Because I want us to have a life together without my past coming between us. And because I'm beginning to think it's possible we might find Bae."

She closes her mouth.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin and Belle stand hand in hand before her father's door. She knocks and they wait; she squeezes his hand comfortingly. He wonders, will it be like this, then, always, facing their fears hand in hand? What a difference another hand makes.

Moe French opens the door. He sees first his long-lost daughter and he recognizes her; his mouth drops open but he doesn't stand aside to let her in. And then he sees that amalgam, that Gold in imp's clothing (for so he thinks, because Rumplestiltskin still looks human), not carrying a cane but holding his daughter's hand like sweethearts. Moe slams the door.

Belle groans and slams her fist against the door.

"You talk to him alone first," Rumplestiltskin suggests. "I'll wait in the car." So he retreats, but not by choice, so the cowardice isn't his; it's Moe's.

Belle pounds on the door again. "Papa! All right, he's leaving; it's just me." Rumple can hear her yelling from across the street. "Papa! I'm not leaving until you talk to me. I'll wait here all day if I have to."

And they wait, she sitting on the porch steps of the house that Regina selected for Moe; Rumple in the car that Regina selected for Gold.

They wait, and Rumple wonders if there's a measure of truth after all in the lies the Evil Queen told him of Belle's torture and suicide. For Belle has not yet shared that part of her story—everything else that came before and after, but not her father's reception of her when she returned after living nearly a year unchaperoned in the castle of the Dark One. Belle avoids the subject and Rumple doesn't push; the story will come in its own time, whether the timing is good for Belle or not, whether it's good for their relationship or not, just as it took a hundred years for Rumple to tell her Bae's story, too late to benefit his emotional health. But such a story can't be rushed.

So they wait and the door does not open, and eventually Emma in her squad car arrives. Clearly annoyed, the sheriff asks what's going on and they explain, and she in turn explains that Moe's asked her to remove them from his property, never mind that it's actually Gold's property. Emma's not entirely sure of the law here, but for the sake of public peace, she asks them to go. Belle borrows a page from the sheriff's notebook and scribbles Gold's phone number with her name below, and she leaves the note in the mailbox, and they leave, driving, just driving pointlessly, not talking, until at last she starts to cry and he pulls the Caddy over and she leans into him. When she's cried out, he suggests they'll try again tomorrow. They return home and sit by the fire, her head on his lap. Suppertime comes and goes but neither is hungry. The sun goes down, the room falls dark but neither moves to turn on a light.

At last she raises her head. "I don't understand. We haven't seen each other in thirty years. Why wouldn't he want to see me? After what he did to me, shouldn't he be happy to know that I want to see him?"

Rumplestiltskin admits, "I think it's because I was with you. We'll try again tomorrow and I'll wait down the block where he can't see me."

But on the next day a neighbor comes through the hedge in answer to their knocking. Moe, he reports, has moved out, left no forwarding address, no message for anyone.

Rumple doesn't take Belle's hand then. He seems to shrink behind the wheel of the big car, no longer the powerful landlord or the powerful imp, just a village spinner who failed his family once again. Still, Belle forgives, forgives them all, Rumple and Moe and even Regina; _Belle_ takes _his_ hand. She needs to let go of her anger in order to heal; she knows this, so she finds the courage to forgive, one day at a time.


	30. Chapter 30

Thirty

The fearsome Dark One is waiting in line at the grocery store.

The part of his brain that contains Gold's memories warns him to behave himself; there are rules of etiquette that dictate proper conduct in these situations. But the part of his brain where the imp lives is spinning fantasies of all sorts of pranks that could be pulled right now, starting with turning all the other shoppers into ants and the cashier into an anteater. Just for giggles, of course.

He shifts the red plastic basket (he refuses to push one of those metal carts; that's just too plebian) from hand to hand as he shifts from foot to foot, and in his thoughts he flashes back to the months upon months of waiting in King James' fairy-dusted prison and conjuring images, since he couldn't conjure anything else, of his new life after the Curse to End All Curses. He'd assumed, back then, he'd have a castle, possibly two (summer and winter) and servants and carriages and vast gardens and groves, since Regina had promised him wealth and comfort. Having jumped to dozens of other realms in search of the information he needed to create the curse, he knew to expect differences between the new world and Fairytale Land, but in none of his imaginings had he foreseen just how much of his new life would consist of waiting in line with red plastic baskets.

Nor could he have foreseen that such peasant work wouldn't seem like a colossal come-down for the once most powerful man in the world. In fact, as the cashier greets him casually and he places his purchases on the conveyer belt, he thinks he's actually kind of. . . happy. Yes, happy. It's been a long time since he connected that word with his life, but the Dark One, it may be said, has become a Domesticated One. The Rumplestiltskin of a hundred years ago would have shrieked at that, but the Rumple-Gold of today considers the change an evolution. For though he has no castle, just a cabin and pink Victorian, and he has no carriages, just a Caddy (which he still plans to trade in on a Lamborghini), and he has no groves, just a postage-stamp sized flower garden, in spite of all that he planned on having but does not, he has a beloved waiting at home for these groceries, and he has a few friends. He has happiness. . . which, in a left-handed kind of way, he owes Regina.

Although, really, he owes someone else more. _Thank You._

A voice from behind him whispers into his ear, "He says you're welcome."

Rumplestiltskin jerks and turns around.

The new nun, Sister Beretrude, stands behind him. She's carrying a little red basket too, and she smiles as if she and he share some great secret.

"What did—" Rumple starts to ask, but the cashier interrupts, "That'll be thirty-one fifty-two, Mr. Gold."

He hands the cashier a fifty and pays no attention whatsoever to the change that's returned to him. He's still gaping at the nun.

Sister Beretrude is placing her groceries on the conveyer belt now, but she takes a moment to lean in to him just a little. "You were never alone, Rumplestiltskin, even when you weren't listening." And then the bagger is handing him four plastic bags filled with his purchases, and he has to move on.

* * *

"Thank you." Belle takes the plastic bags from him and unpacks them, placing some of the items in the refrigerator and moving the rest to the kitchen table to add to their evening meal. She pours oil and vinegar and herbs into a cruet and shakes the bottle expertly, as if she's been cooking in this world for years. She holds the cruet up to the light and peers at the emulsion; it's her own potion, as important as any he's mixed in his lab, because this meal, all these meals, are a communion that binds her and him. He's keeping count: nine meals they've had together in this world. He won't forget a moment of any of them.

As he tosses the salad, he states the obvious: "The trial starts tomorrow."

She doesn't ask, as everyone else does, whether he can win; she asks, "Would you like to run through your opening statement again?"

"No, I'm ready." He abandons the salad tongs and slips his arms around her waist. "There's something else. . . . Belle, I was wondering if you want to meet Estrilda."

Belle knows, of course, just who Estrilda is and was. When he first told her about his marriage, she asked the usual questions, but was not so surprised how few of them he could answer. It was, after all, so long ago, and she can see he prefers to forget. His description of his wife and his marriage is concluded in the time it takes to draw and release a breath; by contrast, a newly lit fire has been reduced to cold ashes in the fireplace long before he's finished talking about his son. Belle can see where his heart lies, and his constancy—two centuries of loving a lost child—amazes her. Belle wonders if he can love a child so, how deep might be his love for her?

But when he speaks of Estrilda, it's clear he thinks of her not as a wife, but as a sorceress or as the mother of Regina or as another dark soul like himself. To perceive her as a rival for Rumplestiltskin's affections would be ludicrous, since even when they were married Estrilda and Rumplestiltskin shared no affections. So Belle turns in his arms to face him and she agrees to the meeting.

"I can—" he waves a hand to suggest an act of magic—"take Regina out of the picture while we talk to Estrilda."

"You wouldn't—"

"Just a sleeping spell. Or I could wall her off so she can't interfere. Nothing harmful, nothing permanent. She's my client; her welfare is my concern. . . for a few more days."

Belle considers, then raises her chin. "No. No, I think I might have a few things to say to Regina."

After their salad and their steaks and after they clean their kitchen—_their_ kitchen—with Rumplestiltskin committing every preciously ordinary moment to memory, they climb into the Caddy and drive to the sheriff's office. Grumpy and Happy are on guard duty; they're playing blackjack and ignoring Regina's last-minute attempts to bribe, blackmail, cajole or coerce them into releasing her. They barely glance up from their cards when Rumple enters, but when Belle greets them, they scramble to their feet. She finds their old-fashioned manners quaint and endearing and not unlike her beloved's.

Watching warily as Belle approaches the jail cells, Regina shuts up—at last. She seems actually relieved when Belle stops in front of the other cage.

"Good evening, Estrilda," Rumple says.

The once-queen uncurls herself from the tight ball she's been sitting in. Her voice and demeanor are subdued. "Rumplestiltskin," she answers in greeting.

"Estrilda—Cora," he corrects himself, "this is Belle." He doesn't need to mention who Belle is or where Belle came from: Estrilda's heard plenty of shouting between Rumplestiltskin and Regina about Belle's torture and imprisonment, so she knows the full story—including, without his needing to say as much, what Belle means to Rumple. In her heyday, Estrilda would have turned this information into a power play, for it reveals an exploitable vulnerability—and a disgusting weakness—in the Dark One. But the Deceiver's abandonment of her and the erosion of her physical and magical strengths have taken some of the starch out of her.

"Hello," Belle says hesitantly.

"Hello," Estrilda returns, looking Belle up and down.

They stare in awkward silence. Regina rattles her cage. "Rumplestiltskin! I want a deal."

With a supportive squeeze to Belle's shoulder, Rumple moves to the Naugahyde couch and sits on its arm. "Are you ready to plea bargain, then?"

Regina snorts. "And give credence to this farce? No, I want to talk about what it's going to take for you to smarten up and let me out of here."

As Rumplestiltskin and Regina argue, Belle folds her hands to keep them from shaking. It's not Estrilda or even Regina she fears, but the cages; confined spaces give her panic attacks. She even leaves her bedroom door open at night. Hopper has been treating her, but it will be a long time, if ever, before she can face a closed space without her mouth going dry and her heart clicking like the hands on a stopwatch.

She tries to focus on Estrilda. "Do you—would you like some water? Coffee?"

"I have what I need, thank you," Estrilda says softly; she slowly rises and approaches the limits of her cell, wrapping her hands around the bars. In a low voice she adds, "Except my freedom."

Belle ignores the last. "I, uh, I understand you'll be staying in Storybrooke after. . . . It's a lovely village. I hope you'll be happy here."

"Happy?" Estrilda echoes. She tightens her grip on the bars to draw Belle's attention there. "Happy? Could you be, if they did to you what they're doing to me?"

"You'll be living with the nuns, I've been told," Belle is puzzled. "I've seen the convent; it looks nice."

"Nice," Estrilda twists her mouth. "How can a prison ever be 'nice'? For all the rest of my days, I'll be locked in that 'nice' convent, 'supervised,' watched constantly, deprived of my comfort, deprived of my freedom, deprived even of my privacy. But you know something about all that, don't you, Lady Belle?" She holds her hand out in supplication. "You must understand."

Belle opens and closes her mouth.

Estrilda presses her face to the cold iron and whispers, "What Regina did to you, it was none of my doing. She is flesh of my flesh, a fact which I will rue until I die; but she is not my daughter in the ways that matter." She makes a motion as if she would stroke Belle's cheek if Belle were standing closer. "I would not have done to you what she did."

Belle doesn't know what to say, so she answers, "Thank you."

"No, I would have sold you as a slave to the sheiks of Agrabah," Estrilda flashes her teeth. "Or better yet, I would have tied a pretty ribbon around your neck and made a present of you to my master."

Belle sucks in a breath. The woman doesn't frighten her, and she will prove it. "What happened to you, Estrilda, that you're so full of hatred?"

"What happened to you, Lady Belle, that you're so silly and weak?" Estrilda retorts.

"You can be happy here, if you choose to. People are kind; they will forgive. They will help you—"

"Who? Queen Snow and King James? Or should I say, the school teacher and her dog-walker husband? I understand there are no kings and queens in this place. Only the deposed and the forgotten. I was a queen once. People like you bowed and kissed the hem of my skirts. They begged for scraps from my table and scraps of my mercy. I was a queen until my master tired of me and withdrew his favor. . . and left me to the whims of my daughter." She pulls at the bars. "It will happen to you, you know. You think you're safe, you think you're special because he loves you. But he's no different from my master. Rumplestiltskin, Regina, the Deceiver; they're cut from the same cloth. Or should I say, woven from the same thread." She hisses, "My husband, who vowed to cherish and protect me—has he given you the same vow? But he sold me to the Deceiver in return for power."

Belle scowls. She knows the full story; she knows the truth. "Why are you lying? What do you think you'll gain from me?"

"Ohhh," Estrilda says slowly. "Of course he would tell you a different tale. Believe him as you like, sweet child. Live in your dream world until the day he sells you too. A pure little soul like yours would fetch a nice price in Hell. Ignorance is bliss. But consider how he's treated you so far, shall we? Is the proof in the pudding?" She licks her lips. "Has he broken promise after promise? Has he left you alone for days and weeks on end, and when he comes home can you smell the other women on him? Has he struck you? Thrown you against a wall and shaken you? Does he molest you? And when you ask for his love does he laugh in your face?"

"No," Belle snaps back. "I don't know what happened when you were so young that made you this way, but I feel sorry for you, Estrilda."

"Cora!" Estrilda insists. "I am Cora, Queen of Hearts, wife of the Morning Star!" She regains her poise. "And former wife of Rumplestiltskin the Dark One, and that's how I know, sweet girl, that you are lying. I can see in your eyes what he's done to you. I can read it in his heart." She turns her back on Belle and waves a dismissive hand. "But believe what you want. Live your little dream. He is, at least, a decent provider—until the day he tires of you and abandons you."

From the other cell, Regina has grown quiet and has been listening with great pleasure to this conversation. Like her mother, Regina perceives Belle as a weak link that may be exploited, and though she would hate to see her mother gain any advantage, Regina does so enjoy any scheme that brings Rumplestiltskin down a notch.

Rumple's foot twitches. It wants to move, it wants to carry him flying across the space to Estrilda's cage so that his hands can wrap around her lying throat to squeeze and squeeze until, just as she's done to so many, the Queen of Hearts disintegrates into dust. His foot wants to run and carry Belle away to the safety and sanctity of their home, their other home, the cabin in the woods, far from Regina's pink house, from Regina's storybook village.

But Belle is brave and must be given her chance to stand on her own two feet. There will be others, some who seem honest and kind, who will seek to drive a wedge between her and Rumplestiltskin, and soon he won't be at her side to defend himself. So he lets his foot twitch and he waits for Belle to fight, if her love is strong enough.

Estrilda spins on her heel and smiles in mock sweetness. "Or you can wise up. Listen to one who knows and learn before it's too late. Walk away, little girl, before the Dark One steals your beauty and your life and your soul."

"May the nuns help you, _Estrilda_; no one else can. From the time I was big enough to walk the grounds without holding my papa's hand, I've been warned about you, the Black Star's slave and concubine. I know what you've done, and now I know why. In all my life I've seen no one, not even your daughter, as sick as you. I've been taught that the True Morning Star forgives even the worst of the worst. If that's so, it's the only forgiveness you'll get. When this trial is over, you may be free to walk the streets of this village, but I swear to you, if I pass you on the street you had better cross to the other side."

She marches over to Regina, who's leaning against her cell's bars and giggling, and before Rumple can realize what she's doing, Belle rears back and sends a closed fist into Regina's nose. "That's for every lash of your whip, every kick, every slap, every year!"

Regina has covered her nose, trying to stop the blood spurting from it. She's stepped back, but not far enough. Belle's fist comes at her again, connecting with an eye. "And that's for my father!"

Belle moves to the middle of the room so she can see both women. "Rumplestiltskin is defending you so that when you're punished, justice and not revenge will be served. He's doing this for the sake of his own soul, not yours. Neither one of you deserves to be defended. I'm standing beside him to help him through this trial, but when this trial is over and you, Regina, are sent to Hell, and you, Estrilda, are sent to your own brand of Hell, I'm going to be there too, laughing my ass off."

She storms out without a glance at Grumpy and Happy, who duck their heads and pretend to be studying their cards. Rumplestiltskin scrambles to catch up.

Wisely, he never mentions this incident to Belle or anyone else. . . but from time to time, he sure does chuckle about it.

* * *

Mother Superior in a black robe sits on the judge's bench. In the jury box are the only Storybrook citizens who believe they can give a fair, if not entirely impartial, verdict: Nova, Bernadette, Beretrude, Sneezy, Granny, and Red. Every other seat in the house is filled.

At a table at the judge's left, Charming and Whale with their six-inch-thick files await. Charming's never worn a dress suit before, not one from this world, that is; he keeps pulling at the collar and the tie. Whale stares across the aisle at the defendant and gloats; he knows they've already won.

At a fairy-dust-sprinkled table at the judge's right, Rumplestiltskin and Regina sit—Emma standing just behind, her gun on her hip, her arms folded but ready to grab whatever may need grabbing. Regina's ankle and wrist are cuffed and chained to the table. Regina in her trim black-and-white pantsuit looks cool and calm, as if she's here to watch a stage play and then go home.

Rumplestiltskin, summoning his inner Gold, has dressed a Hugo Boss suit. He's a little green at the gills—not because his skin is changing back, but because the fairy dust nauseates him. An empty legal pad lies before him. "Last chance, Regina. A plea bargain?"

"Never."

"In the matter of the Land of Fairytales versus Regina Mills—"

"Queen Regina," the defendant interrupts and Rumple steps on her foot to shush her.

"-is the prosecution ready?" Mother Superior asks.

Whale and Charming rise. "We are, Your Honor."

"Is the defense ready?"

Rumple rises and pushes Regina by the elbow to do the same. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Very well then, be seated. King James, you may make your opening statement."

Rumple jumps to his feet. "Objection, Your Honor."

Charming spreads his hands. "But I haven't said anything yet."

"The defense objects to the use of the term 'King' in addressing the prosecution. By reminding the jury of the prosecutor's former title—which, by the way, is not recognized in the State of Maine—the court is prejudicing the jury."

Mother Superior sighs. "Very well, Rumplestiltskin, I'll refrain from use of that title and any other that may inadvertently sway opinion—for example, 'Dark One.' James, you may make your opening statement."

It's a nice piece of writing, Rumplestiltskin must admit, though James sounds a little too rehearsed. Rumple recognizes certain phrases as Snow's. When Charming reads off the list of charges, it takes a full twelve minutes. "Two hundred years of violent behavior and disregard for other people's rights," James sums up.

"I'm not that old," Regina gripes.

"It's perfectly clear that the defendant is a danger to any society she's placed in, and so we ask that you find her guilty on all counts and banish her to oblivion."

Regina's mouth drops open and she hisses to Rumple, "That's worse than execution."

"Rumplestiltskin, you may make your opening statement."

The imp rises and strolls over to the jury box, where he makes eye contact with each juror, one at a time. They do their best not to squirm. Then Rumple hooks his thumbs in his jacket pockets and begins. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that's quite a list of grievances the prosecution has there. Such a long list, in fact, that I have to wonder, if my client really did do all those awful things—and I agree with James, those are awful things—if my client really did all that, where did she find time to run a city? A clean, safe city, may I remind you. A prosperous city.

"But as to the charges. Three hundred and eleven in all, ranging from petty theft to kidnapping, assault and murder. The only crimes missing from this list are littering and jaywalking. We do not argue that these events happened. We do not even argue"—he shoots a warning glance at Regina—"that Regina carried out these acts. What we do argue is that Regina Mills is not responsible for her actions during the commission of these crimes."

He gives the jury a moment to let this sink in, then he expounds, "To establish his case, my opponent must prove two things. First, he must prove that a crime was committed. In legal parlance, this is known as _actus reus_. We are not contending the case on this basis. But my opponent must also prove _mens rea_: that is, that my client intended to commit the crimes, and this is where we differ. I intend to prove that my client is not guilty of any of these offenses because the acts were performed_ involuntarily_. The Model Penal Code, Section 2.01, states that 'a person is not guilty of an offense unless his liability is based on conduct which includes a _voluntary_ act or the omission to perform an act of which he is physically capable.'

"I am not contending that Regina was not physically capable of these crimes. We all know that magical powers enable the possessor to perform feats of incredible strength, even feats that defy all natural laws. What I am contending is that none of these acts were voluntary on Regina's part.

"I intend to prove that from the moment she came into possession of her magical powers, Regina was no longer in full possession of her mind and her soul, the two aspects of our being that enable us to make independent decisions and understand the consequences of our actions. I am arguing that, although Regina understood the physical outcomes of her actions, she did not understand the moral outcomes. For example, when she sent the Huntsman to kill Snow White, she understood that outcome would be Snow's death, but Regina did not understand that the killing was murder. You see, there is a distinction: to kill is to cause death, but to murder is to _wrongfully_ cause death, quite another thing altogether. Regina knew that if the Huntsman stabbed Snow, she would be killed. Regina did _not_ know that the killing would be wrong.

"I will prove that Regina Mills lacks a heart and a soul, that both were taken from her, and that as a consequence she is not capable of making moral or ethical judgments. It is an oversimplification, but for the sake of shorthand, I will prove that Regina Mills is the victim of mind control—or if you will, soul control."

He pauses and when he resumes his voice booms through the courtroom, though he is still speaking in his normal register. "For the heart of Regina Mills was taken from her by her own mother, and the soul of Regina Mills was taken from her by the one who calls himself—falsely—the Morning Star. It was Regina who carried out these acts, but it was he, the Black Star, who committed the crimes by acting through Regina.

"And therefore, you, who do possess and control your own hearts and souls, must look into them and find her not responsible for her actions, not guilty of these crimes."

He walks back to his table, ignoring the murmurs and whispers and Charming's rolling eyes and Regina's hard glare. From the front row, Belle gives him an encouraging smile.

It's not the best choice for a strategy: brainwashing defenses seldom win. But it's the truth. If he's going to bring justice, he will have to strip off the hurt and the anger that obfuscate the case so that he can spin out the pure essence of the truth.

From straw he must spin gold.


	31. Chapter 31

Thirty-One

"Plea bargain, Regina?"

"Never. I will not give credence—"

"Yeah, yeah. 'To this farce.' With that attitude, I probably couldn't get you a decent deal anyway."

Court breaks for lunch on the first day. Emma and Grumpy haul Regina back to her cell; the jury is sequestered; the prosecution's rather large entourage strolls off to Dave's Fish and Chips, since Granny's is closed.

Rumple stands and waits for Belle as she speaks a few words to Billy, whom she is hiring: he will be giving her driving lessons as soon as the trial is over. As he waits, Rumple is thinking about the jurors' reactions to the opening statements. While people can control their facial expressions, they usually lack the self-awareness to control their body language, and what he saw this morning showed surprise—for some, amazement—that quickly turned into skepticism when he revealed the crux of his argument. The lone exception was Beretrude, who wore a look he couldn't define. . . .

"What would you like for lunch, sweetheart?"

He snaps back to the present moment as Belle's hand slips into his. A lump forms in his throat. To any eavesdroppers, her question would seem so mundane as to be dull, but to Rumple, it's a milestone moment: in his entire two-hundred-sixty-four years of life, not once has anyone ever called him "sweetheart."

It will be very, very hard to let Belle go.

He closes his eyes briefly and kisses the top of her head before leading her through the crowd to the exit. She's rattling off possible menus from the items she's stuffed the refrigerator and the cupboards with. The grocery store absolutely amazes her, with its offerings of fresh, safe, ready-to-eat and easy-to-cook products from all over the world. Most of what's available are things she's never heard of and has no idea how to prepare, so the grocery's employees have become her new best chums as they've patiently answered her questions and allowed her to sample any ware she's curious about. And of course she's filled their kitchen—_their _kitchen—with cookbooks.

He adores her all the more for her curiosity and enthusiasm, and for the distraction the stories of her learning experiences provide, in the midst of this grim, sometimes gruesome, trial.

She's chattering about fruit today: kiwis and bananas and pomegranates and permissions, none of which she's ever tasted, but she's amused by the sounds of the words.

If a genie were to pop out of that lamp in the pawnshop and offer Rumple three wishes, he could think of only two: to find Bae, of course, and to spend the remainder of his days discovering the world through Belle's eyes.

But he'll have to settle for lunch. He and she join the throng passing through the exit. All of Storybrooke has turned out for this trial: no one's conducting business today. In fact, the hospital is the one exception; even the school remains closed as the community staggers to its feet after the breaking of the curse and the coming of True Love's magic.

He recognizes all these faces, of course, and through the scents of their magic he can identify their old world roles, even if he never knew them in his past life. To his left is a pair of elves; to his right, a gnome and a leprechaun; in front, a woodsman—

And behind him he smells freshly baked bread.

He stops, causing the people behind him to bump into him; Belle, still walking, feels a tug on her hand and turns around, puzzled. He turns too, searching with his eyes and his nose. So many people back there, so many. . . .

And then he spots the owner of the bread scent. He's a tall, lean guy of indeterminate age (are these messengers ageless, as he once was?), curly black hair, brown eyes, hawk nose. He's chatting with others as they make their way to the exit, yet he's apart from them, not just in his body language but in his aura. He nods in reply to someone's comment about the weather and then he shifts to his left and makes direct eye contact with Rumple.

The stranger smiles. It's not one of those polite stranger smiles, though; it's an "I know you" smile.

The crowd presses in. Rumple has to move forward. But as soon as he and Belle have cleared the exit, Rumple draws her to the side and he watches for the bread man. He waits until the courtroom has emptied, but somehow he misses his prey. Belle is talking about clothing now, the vast improvements in women's fashions. He tries to listen to her as he searches the crowd. He's making an extra effort these days to listen.

* * *

As soon as he sits down at the defense table again, he feels queasy. Most of it's the fairy dust, but some of it's nerves. But once the prosecution begins to lay out their case, Rumple pulls back, allowing Gold to dominate: the old stick-in-the-mud seizes the yellow pad and fills it with notes, word for word duplication of Charming's witnesses' testimony, with circles and arrows and underlines indicating possible lines of attack.

When it's his turn for cross-examination, Gold attacks the words, punching holes in them whenever he can, hoping to drain the witnesses' arguments. He's most successful when he challenges the source of a witness' information: "How do you _know_ Regina did that? Did you see her do it? Did you hear her say she did it?" But there are several eyewitnesses and for these all he can do is question their memory, or in Sidney Glass' case, his motive for testifying. Gold manages to raise doubt in the jury's eyes when he cites the many grievances Glass has against Regina: "Anyone who had suffered at Regina's hands the way you suffered would be angry. Anyone would be outraged. It's perfectly understandable—and it's perfectly understandable that after years of torment, your judgment would be clouded by that anger, just a little bit, and your memory might be tainted by that anger, just a little bit, and perhaps the account you've given us today, while it's your truth, isn't exactly _the_ truth."

But any gain Gold may have achieved with Glass is blown away when those precious kids Hansel and Gretel testify. Gold considers raising the kids' shoplifting record, but he's sure that would only backfire, so after reminding the jury of their age—implying that they may have misunderstood Regina's actions in abducting them and their father—he ends his cross-examination of the kids.

At first, Charming and Whale give him an odd look because he keeps dropping the word _evil_, keeps stretching each crime to make it seem even more horrendous than Charming portrays it. After a while, Charming's expression changes to one of disgust, and then Gold knows the king believes Gold has hung Regina out to dry. But what Charming doesn't notice is that with every eyewitness, Gold asks, "How did Regina react as she was performing this evil deed?"

To a man (or woman) they all say the same thing: she laughed. She enjoyed the pain she was causing, even if she herself received injury too.

* * *

Regina becomes increasingly subdued as the days wear on. The sheer number of witnesses is enough to tilt the case—if, during deliberations, the jury doesn't recall specific testimony, they will recall that Charming produced seventeen witnesses, nine of them eyewitnesses. Each morning, Rumple asks, "Plea bargain?" And each morning, Regina refuses, but her refusal degenerates from "never" to a slow head shake.

The prosecution takes six days to complete its argument. Rumple-Gold feels rather sorry for Charming and Snow: they have no income during this time and are living off Emma's. If he chose, Gold could make things rough for them: with the mayor in jail, Charming, who has taken on the role of mayor pro tem, is signing city employees' paychecks, including Emma's. By municipal law, there should have been an election, so Charming's actions are high questionable, if not downright illegal. But Rumple is anxious to get this trial over with, so Gold does not stir the political pot.

* * *

On the fifth day, Belle is called to the stand. She's torn: on the one hand, she wants the community to hear her story, so they can judge Regina with complete information; but on the other, she feels a little traitorous. But Rumple-Gold convinces her that her testimony could actually help make his argument, and besides, Hopper believes this step will help Belle to heal. So to the witness stand she goes. Charming gives her free reign: "Tell us about your encounters with Regina."

She begins by describing her first encounter with Regina and her discovery of the power of True Love's kiss. She admits that on that day, she intended not to return to the Dark Castle, for fear of what the Dark One's hold on Rumplestiltskin might mean for her, if she fell in love. But the promise of a cure brought her back, and it was only recently that she learned why Rumplestiltskin would not accept a cure.

"To retain his magic," Charming surmises.

"Yes."

"So he could continue to wield power over people."

"No. If that were the reason, he never would have permitted Regina to carry out the Final Curse, since it meant he became a human again."

"Why then wouldn't he allow you to change him?"

Belle draws herself up in defiance. "I fail to see how that's relevant to this case. We're talking about Regina, are we not?" She glances at Mother Superior. "I don't know if the rules allow this, but I object."

Mother Superior's mouth twitches in a smile. "I'll sustain your objection, Belle."

"All right," Charming proceeds. "Tell us about your second meeting with Regina."

"After my wrongheaded attempt to break the Dark One's curse, I left the Dark Castle." She neglects to mention that Rumple drove her away. "I returned to my village, and I was pleased to see that peace and prosperity had returned, because Rumplestiltskin kept his bargain: he'd ended the Second Ogre War. But as I approached my father's castle, my childhood nanny came to me and warned me to leave. Gunnora told me that while I was away, the queen of a neighboring kingdom arrived. My parents of course welcomed her as an honored visitor; they gave her the best of everything. She stayed for months, so she could offer my parents solace, she said, for I was considered lost to them forever. It was assumed that the Dark One would never release me. It was also assumed—and Gunnora told me that Regina fueled this belief—that Rumplestiltskin had stolen my virtue and my soul.

"The rumor had caught fire. I was now a pariah in my own village, the village I was to have ruled upon my father's death. Horrible things were said about me. I was called names no mother could bear for her child to be called, and so my mother was overcome with grief and she became ill, and after many months she died. It was Gunnora's belief and mine that my mother would be alive today if Regina had not spread those rumors about me.

"After my mother's death, my father was lost. Under the guise of kindness, Regina swooped in. Gunnora said that from the moment of my mother's funeral, my father changed: he had always been a weak man, but now he handed over the ruling of the duchy to Regina. She made all the decisions. He moved through life as a ghost. The servants believed she cast a spell on him."

"Objection," Gold interrupts, rubbing his forehead as if a sudden headache has come on. "Hearsay is not evidence." _Even when we all know it's the truth._

"Sustained," Mother Superior says.

"Continue, Belle," Charming instructs.

"On Gunnora's advice, I took shelter with her. I planned to leave the village in the morning; Gunnora gave me money for ship's passage. But I'd no sooner fallen asleep than twenty of my father's men came, beating down the door to Gunnora's cottage. They were acting on Regina's orders. They abducted me and took me to her castle, where I was thrown in a dungeon. I was kept there for several days without food. Regina came to the dungeon often to laugh at me and interrogate me—and beat me with whips. She told me that she had convinced my father she would give me a new life in her court, a high position, a chance to start over in a place where no one knew about my involvement with the Dark One. But I soon came to know her reason for taking me was to force information out of me.

"She asked me question after question about Rumplestiltskin, and when she wasn't satisfied with my answer, she whipped me and slapped me and deprived me of water and food." To illustrate, Belle turns away from the jury and raises the back of her shirt, revealing her scars. "I don't know how many days or weeks I was in her dungeon. Regina wanted to know Rumplestiltskin's plans—and his weaknesses. I couldn't answer her questions, no matter how she beat me; I didn't know the answers.

"She tried a different sort of torture. With her magic she filled the dungeon with mirrors, and these mirrors showed me images of Rumplestiltskin, alone in the Dark Castle. But her plan backfired. Through the mirrors I saw how lonely he was without me. And then one day Regina went to him and told him that my father had tortured me and driven me to suicide. Through the mirrors I saw it all. I saw him grieve—and it gave me hope, because I knew then he loved me. I vowed I would find a way back to him. Being able to see him through those mirrors gave me strength, and so I fought back in the only way I could: I stayed alive.

"And then one day she came to me and she brought food and new dress for me. I thought she'd decided to try to gain information by bribing me, but she told me that we were celebrating her final victory, which would come on the morrow. She would cast a curse that would destroy Fairytale Land and take us all to a horrible place where we could never be happy again. When she told me this, she laughed and clapped her hands like a child who's just received a present. I didn't believe her, but then I looked to her Huntsman and he said it was true, and I realized then I would never see Rumplestiltskin again, and I lost hope. I wanted to die.

"On the next day, she kept her word. And in a way, I died, just as all of you did. Except in this new land, you all were given fake lives to live; I was not. It seems she had overlooked me; she locked me in the asylum and for the most part, forgot about me. She gave me no name, no fake life to live. The nurses at the asylum called me Jane Doe because they had no name for me. I didn't have fake memories to occupy me; I had no memories at all. And that was the worst torture of all.

"But through my dreams small pieces of my past life starting coming back to me. I thought they weren't real, but I clung to them anyway. I took those small moments and spun a life around them, a fake life for myself, because I needed a past. Everyone needs a past. But some of the pieces from my dreams kept coming back over and over, and they were so vivid I came to believe they had to be real. I remembered a tall man sitting in a big chair, and me sitting at his feet; I know now this was my father. I remembered a woman in flowing robes holding my hand: this was my mother. And I remembered a man with golden eyes I couldn't look away from, a man who needed me. This last memory kept me going, because I had hope that someday they would let me out of the cage and I could find that golden man, and he would know who I was, and he would touch me and then I would know too."

The courtroom has fallen silent. Charming has lost track of his line of questioning; he's caught up in the tale. And then there's a small choking sound, and all eyes turn, and mouths fall open.

Rumple-Gold is weeping.

He's aware he's under scrutiny. He's aware he's hurting his own case. He can't help it. Emma steps forward and sets a comforting hand on his shoulder, and then he really loses it. Not just weeping: sobbing inconsolably.

There's one other sound, besides his weeping: his client is laughing. It starts as a snigger and grows into a guffaw.

Mercifully, Mother Superior dismisses court for the day. Emma takes Regina away. Belle runs from the witness box and throws her arms around Rumple-Gold and they move away, seeking a private corner; Mother Superior comes and whispers that they're welcome to use the judge's chambers. Charming comes and apologizes to Belle, then awkwardly pats Rumple-Gold's arm. "Sorry, man."

As Belle leads him to the judge's chambers, Rumple-Gold struggles to collect himself. Pre-occupied, it doesn't register with him until much later that the curly-haired bread man also touched his arm in sympathy.

That evening, alone in Regina's pink house, Belle and Rumple-Gold have a long talk about the possibility of throwing this trial, to make sure Regina gets the punishment she deserves. Even Belle is tempted.

* * *

On the sixth day, Snow testifies. She's on the stand a full five hours, and her testimony is of course the most damaging of all, since most of Regina's crimes were committed against her. After that, the prosecution rests.

Rumple-Gold does not sleep that night. Belle sits up with him, making him tea and quietly reading a novel as he scours an odd assortment of books: law, philosophy, history and religion. He sometimes looks up from his books with a dazed expression, as if he's wandered off into the woods and gotten lost. Then she brings him tea and a smile, and he blinks and comes back into his body again, remembering: this is how it used to be when they shared the Dark Castle. And he thinks: this is how it should always be.


	32. Chapter 32

Thirty-Two

**A/N. I need some pet names for Rumple and Belle to call each other, something "spe-cy-al," as Rumple would say. Any ideas?**

**Okay, I'm going a bit off-canon, to give Regina a small chance with the jury. . . and I just can't resist having a "kiss my boot" moment.**

* * *

"Plea bargain?"

Regina shakes her head, and then she says something strange: "I want to see this through." He's not sure what she means, but he doesn't have time to ask, for the judge arrives, then the jury, and the room is called to order, and it's showtime. He slips a hand inside his jacket pocket and fingers the tapestry he's tucked away there. Today the tapestry makes him think of Bae, which in turn makes him think about truth.

He calls his first witness. Estrilda is dressed in her customary black. Although she holds her head high, her shoulders have stooped and she moves more slowly than before; this world is not healthy for her. Or perhaps it was the magic that kept her strong, and now that it's almost gone, her body is reverting to its natural state. Prolonged exposure to fairy dust probably has taken a toll too: along with his upset stomach, Rumple's experienced a loss of appetite since he's started spending six hours a day at a fairy-dusted table. In order to make the demonstration he needs Estrilda to make, he's asked for the fairy dust to be vacuumed from the building, just for today.

"State your name for the court, please."

"Cora, Queen of Hearts."

Gold lets that slide. To force her to give her original name would only cause problems. "And your relationship to my client?"

"Mother."

"You raised your daughter, did you not?"

"Yes. Her father and I, that is."

"You taught her all the usual things a mother teaches a child: how to talk, how to walk, how dress."

"Yes."

"And all the things a girl of her status is expected to know: how to manage servants, how to speak eloquently, how to plan a ball, how to dance."

"Yes."

"And, being a loving mother, you shared your gifts with her: your ability to govern, to form strategic alliances, to conduct war."

"Yes. Once she became betrothed to King Leopold, she needed such guidance. The king was a weak leader; my daughter was the real power behind the throne."

"Very thoughtful of you. You gave her your strengths."

"Yes."

"What did you take from her?"

Estrilda frowns. "What do you mean?"

Gold reaches into his jacket pocket for an object, which he sets on the bar surrounding the witness stand. Estrilda sees it and jerks her head.

"What did you take from her, Cora?" Gold persists. "What did you take and lock into a box?"

Cora says nothing.

"You must answer the question, dear."

She licks her lips and mutters an answer.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we heard you. Please say that again."

"Her heart. I took her heart."

"Her heart. Literally, her heart? You removed it from her body and locked it in a box?"

"Yes."

Gold steps back, watching the jury, giving them time to digest this news. He picks up the object from his pocket and brings it to the jury box, then snaps his fingers and the object enlarges from the size of a baseball to the size of a laptop. "I realize this looks like a toy, ladies and gentlemen, but I assure you it's not. I had to shrink it to bring it here for you to see." Over his shoulder he asks Cora, "What is this object, Cora?"

"It's my vault."

"What do you keep in this vault?"

"Hearts."

"Hearts of people?"

"Yes."

"Living people?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"About ninety."

"Why?"

"To control them. . . to punish them."

"How do you control them?"

"Without their hearts, they have no feelings. That makes them prone to suggestion. And with a small squeeze on the heart, I can inflict extreme pain, compelling the victim to obey me."

"No feelings. They can't love? Can't feel compassion? Can't care for other people?"

"No."

"Prone to suggestion?" Gold glances at the jury. "That sounds rather far-fetched. I believe we require a demonstration." He snaps his fingers again and a long metal box appears in his hand. He opens the box and shows it to Estrilda. "What is this, Cora?"

"A heart."

"Yes, but whose?"

"Regina's."

"You took your daughter's heart."

"It was for her own good. For her protection." Estrilda turns to the jury. "When she was barely eighteen, she became infatuated with a stable boy. A stable boy! What kind of future would she have had? He slept in a dirty little room in the stables! He had no prospects and desire to advance. If she had had children with him, they would have starved. But Regina was always a headstrong girl, impetuous, controlled by her whims. She would have run off with this boy if I hadn't intervened. I put a quick end to it."

"How? How did you 'put a quick end' to it?"

"She left me no choice. I had to do something extreme."

"Which was?"

"I killed him. It was a quick death."

"You were telling us about taking Regina's heart. The jury may not be familiar with this particular act of magic. Why did you feel it necessary when you'd already eliminated the threat?"

"Even after Daniel was out of the way, Regina persisted in her disobedience. She refused to honor her promise to Leopold. She ran away repeatedly. I had no choice. So one night as she slept, I removed her heart, locked it away for safekeeping. And time proved me right. As a result, Regina kept her promise to King Leopold. She married him and became the queen of a large and wealthy kingdom. She had a glorious future ahead of her." She leans forward at glares at Rumple-Gold. "Until you taught her magic."

"I did indeed. But you've failed to mention another significant event, my dear. How did Regina gain magic?"

Estrilda folds her arms and turns aside. "I don't know. I wasn't there when it happened. I simply woke up one morning and I could sense it."

"Very well then. How does anyone acquire magic?"

"If you know how, you can take the magic from an object that possesses it. That's how they work." She points to the judge. "Fairy dust. Wands. Or if you kill the Dark One with his dagger, you will acquire his magic, as you did."

"Yes. But Regina doesn't use fairy dust and obviously she didn't kill me, so how did she acquire her magic?"

"I know of only one other way."

"The way you acquired your magic."

"Yeah."

"Which is?"

With a disgusted sigh, Estrilda turns her back to the jury and bares her right shoulder.

"Let the record show," Rumple-Gold says, "Cora has shown us a mark on her right shoulder, a black star, two inches long, two inches wide. Cora, what does this mark signify?"

"Ownership."

"Of what?"

"Of me. I belong to the Morning Star."

"The being to whom you refer is known by various names. So that we're all on the same page, when you say 'Morning Star,' are you referring to the being commonly called the Source of All Magic or the True Morning Star?"

"No, I mean the Source of _Dark_ Magic. Some call him the Dark Star or the Black Star. Those who know him best call him the Deceiver. And those who bear this mark call him master, because we sold our souls to him."

"You sold your soul to the Deceiver for magic?"

"Yes. And it was _delicious_." Her eyes brighten and her face glows. "He made me his queen, and he gave me the power to take whatever I wanted. For so many years, it was everything I dreamed of, until he tired of me and threw me away for another."

"For Regina?"

"Apparently."

"If Regina sold her soul to the Deceiver, would she have that mark?"

"The Deceiver always marks his property."

"What does it mean to have sold your soul?"

Estrilda grabs the arms of the witness chair. "What do you think it means, Rumplestiltskin? It's no different from becoming the Dark One. He lives inside your head. He feeds you thoughts and impulses. He controls you. You do his bidding, whether it's in your nature or not. And you find the longer he controls you, the more it becomes your nature to be controlled—and the more delightful it is to do the worst of his bidding."

"Even killing."

"Especially killing." Her cheeks flush.

"What does it mean to be abandoned by the Deceiver?"

She shrinks back in the chair. "You no longer hear his voice. You're alone, unloved. Forgotten. You keep trying to win his love back; you do bigger and bigger things to get his attention. Sometimes he comes back—and knowing that he might makes it so much harder to be without him."

"Does the Deceiver exist in this world?"

"The Deceiver exists everywhere, for all time."

"Have you heard him since you came here? Seen him?"

"No. I'm abandoned here too."

"But you still have some power, don't you?"

Estrilda widens her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"The hearts. I hold them here, but only you can control them. None of the rest of us have that power."

Now she's at peace. "Yes. I still have the hearts."

"Give them back, Estrilda."

"What?!"

"Give them back to the people you stole them from."

"What a ridiculous suggestion! What mage in her right mind would give up her sole power? Or any power?"

"Because those hearts don't belong to you. And because the power is making you sick." He leans forward and says in a low voice, "Because you remember what it was like to be too small and helpless to protect yourself against evil, and you don't want others to suffer the way you did."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Rumple-Gold looks away from her, thinking, and then he decides to take a risk on a hunch. "All right. Use your power, then. Let's see which of us is right. Use your power and demonstrate for the jury that it really does allow you to control your victims. For Regina's sake, demonstrate to the jury that you took her heart and control it." He sets the metal box on the judge's desk, then steps back.

Estrilda stares at the box. She begins to breathe heavily.

"Take Regina's heart from the vault and control her. Require her to do something that we know she would never in a million years do willingly."

Estrilda slowly stretches out her hand. She senses she's incriminating herself, but her sole remaining power is just inches away, and it's been so long, so long since that glorious rush of magic has coursed through her body, so long since she felt she ruled anything. Her hand shakes and then glows, and the lid of the box flies off, and the heart rises and comes to her. As soon as it touches her hand, she sighs deeply and the color comes back into her face. She closes her eyes, luxuriating in the surge of magic seeping through her pores, into her blood, into her brain. She tightens her grip on the heart.

Regina clutches her chest and gasps.

"Something she would never do willingly," Rumple-Gold prompts.

Estrilda sighs again and opens her eyes. She gives the heart a little squeeze.

Regina pushes away from the defense table. Emma starts forward, but Rumple-Gold raises a staying hand and Emma, hand hovering over her gun, allows Regina to move out onto the floor. Regina groans, throws her head back in agony, then throws her head forward again. She drops to her hands and knees and crawls across the courtroom floor, across the aisle. She stops at the first row of seats behind the prosecution's table. Snow is sitting there, just behind her husband. Groaning, baring her teeth, Regina lowers her head. . . and kisses Snow's shiny leather shoe.

The courtroom falls completely silent. Snow shudders and Charming, pulling his chair back, stands ready, just in case.

Estrilda eases her grip on the heart. Regina falls back onto her haunches, gasping. When she regains control, she shrieks, "Mother!"

Estrilda returns the heart to its box.

Rumple-Gold comes to Regina and helps her to stand and return to her seat. "May we take a recess, Your Honor?"

Mother Superior grants his request.

* * *

During the recess, Whale swallows his pride. He brings his medical bag into the holding cell and examines both Estrilda and Regina. He finds Regina's blood pressure elevated, but she's otherwise undamaged. He finds Estrilda's blood pressure—much improved. "Looks like you were wrong, Rumple. Her power's actually improved her condition."

"Temporary. Please examine her again this evening."

"Quite a show you put on there, by the way," Whale remarks. "I believe lawyers call that 'grandstanding.'"

"I take that as a compliment from one showman to another," Rumple-Gold bows slightly, "Mr. Pan."

* * *

When court resumes, Rumple-Gold indicates he's finished with this witness, and Charming cross examines. "Do you have any kind of proof that you're—what did you say?—'the property of the Deceiver'? Something more substantial than a tattoo."

"Nothing pertaining to magic can be proven. It has to be believed. Non-believers will always find some way to explain magic away." Estrilda smiles. "Which only gives us mages all the more power."

"We saw a heart in a box. We saw you squeeze it and Regina put on a show of being possessed. Can you prove to us it was anything more than an act?"

"She kissed your wife's foot. What more do you want. . . dearie?"

"There's no possibility that the heart in that box can be Regina's. She'd be dead if her heart had been extracted."

"The physical heart remains. It's the spiritual manifestation of the heart that I take. Would you like me to demonstrate how I do it—on you?"

For a moment, Charming looks horrified. She laughs, "There. See? Deep down, you do believe."

Charming throws his hands up. "It's a lie. I refuse to waste any more of the court's time on this—fairy tale."

"It's not going well," Rumple-Gold hisses to Regina. "In case you can't tell. Let's plea bargain."

"No."

"All right, I'm going to have to do something dramatic."

"I thought you just did."


	33. Chapter 33

Thirty-Three

Rumple-Gold addresses the jury. "We've heard detailed descriptions of disturbing acts of violence perpetrated by my client. So much evil from one lone woman, it's hard to imagine. No normal individual—in fact, no _individual_ could do so much evil.

"The defense calls Dr. Hopper."

It's a marked contrast from the previous witness' testimony. Gold is more than ready for this break: a calm, scientific discussion with an expert who has no horse in this race. The psychiatrist takes the stand after being sworn in.

"Dr. Hopper, in what capacity do you know my client?"

"I have been treating her son in twice weekly sessions for several years."

"And in that capacity, have you provided therapy for Ms. Mills as well?"

"Not directly. When I first began treating her son, I held several private sessions with her, to help me get a handle on their home situation. Throughout the years I continued to meet with her privately on occasion. And two weeks ago at your request, I ran a battery of tests to assess her physical and psychological condition."

"And what did you find?"

Hopper consults his notepad. "Ms. Mills is an intelligent individual with a cluster of personality disorders that affect all of her relationships, both personal and professional. Primary among these is dissocial personality disorder."

"Please define that, Dr. Hopper."

Archie shifts in the witness box so that he can make eye contact with the jurors. He seems to be literally reaching for words as he tries to explain, in a few sentences, a highly complex concept for an audience unfamiliar with psychology. It means oversimplifying, and that makes his conscience itch because it's a little deceptive, but if he's to help this jury come to the right verdict, it's better that he give them a watered-down explanation that they can understand than to talk over their heads.

"Dissocial personality disorder is a dysfunction marked by emotional instability, irresponsibility and a total disregard for the rights of others. An individual with dissocial personality disorder exhibits the lack of a conscience. He or she flagrantly violates both social conventions and laws, with no regard for the harm that's done to victims, and when confronted, he or she refuses to accept responsibility. The patient is unable to see that he or she has done anything wrong; he or she is incapable of living within the rules of society because he or she is incapable of feeling guilty. The behavior is ego-syntonic—that is, consistent with how he or she views the world. In fact, from his or her point of view, the behavior makes sense. Any action that achieves the individual's goals is, in his or her mind, appropriate, whether it's lying, theft—"

Rumplestiltskin's mind supplies the rest of the sentence: _kidnapping, arson or murder_.

And he hears voices from his past: _"What did you do?!" "I got what I wanted." _He slips a hand into his pocket and grasps the tapestry, taking strength from it.

Hopper is continuing, "This passage may help us to clarify. Thomas Millon and Roger Davis, who are leading experts in the study of personality disorders, write: 'The antisocial is driven, first, to benefit himself and, second, to take vigorous action to see that these benefits do accrue to himself. . . . Recognising by virtue of past experience that little will be achieved without considerable effort, cunning and deception, the antisocial knows that desired ends must be achieved from one's own actions. Moreover, these actions serve to fend off the malice that one anticipates from others, and undo the power possessed by those who wish to exploit the antisocial.'"

"_Undo the power possessed by those who wish to exploit the antisocial_"—for example, an imp wishing to exploit an evil queen. Rumple-Gold struggles to focus. "Is this what's commonly called a sociopath?"

"Not exactly, but there are similarities."

"And, uh, how did you come to this diagnosis?"

"Through testing. I was first alerted to the possible presence of the condition when I compared Regina's conduct to a list of six characteristics developed by The International Classification of Diseases. An individual who exhibits at least three of the six is considered to have dissocial personality disorder." Hopper reads from his notes. "Number one: 'a callous unconcern for the feelings of others.'"

"Such as a disregard for the suffering of three hundred people whose families, friends, lives and identities were stripped from them when the final curse was enacted."

"Yes. In this regard, Regina also exhibits _Schadenfreude_, taking pleasure from others' pain, as we have seen repeatedly in this courtroom."

"To clarify: Regina is incapable of sympathy."

"Yes, to put it simply. Number two: 'Gross and persistent attitude of irresponsibility and disregard for social norms, rules, and obligations.'"

"For example, faking a murder in order to take revenge upon an enemy."

Archie's mouth twitches. "Yes, most definitely. Number three: 'Incapacity to maintain enduring relationships, though having no difficulty in establishing them.'"

Rumple-Gold runs a hand across his mouth, thinking. "I suppose," he says softly, "the longest of Regina's relationships have been with her mother and me. Her mother—whom Regina banished to Wonderland for one hundred fifty years. And me. . ." He looks over his shoulder, and the jury follows his gaze not to Regina, but to Belle. He says nothing more; the expression on his face finishes his thought for him.

Archie clears his throat and continues. "Number four: 'Very low tolerance to frustration and a low threshold for discharge of aggression, including violence.'"

"Such as tossing a noted psychiatrist against a wall and calling him 'bug' when he tried to reason with her."

Archie tugs at his collar. "Yes. Number five: 'Incapacity to experience guilt or to profit from experience, particularly punishment.'"

From the corner of his eye, Rumple-Gold sees Charming seize a notepad and begin to scrawl hasty notes. When Archie had first introduced this list of criteria to him, Rumple-Gold realized Number Five by itself could prompt a death sentence from the jury, but he had to risk it; if handled correctly, Number Five could save Regina's life. Rumple-Gold walks from the witness stand to the jury box; as he does so, he asks Hopper to repeat Number Five.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Rumple-Gold says in a low voice, "I ask you to take special care in remembering this description. Regina Mills is _not guilty_ of the charges brought against her because she is _not capable_ of feeling guilt or learning from punishment. Once I have shown you why, you will agree with me that it would be. . . unjust and inhumane to find a guilty verdict." He looks each juror in the eye, then asks Hopper to proceed.

"Number Six: 'Markedly prone to blame others or to offer plausible rationalizations for the behavior that has brought the person into conflict with society.'"

Rumple-Gold consults his notes, then reads: "From the testimony of Snow White: 'Regina said I had betrayed her and I deserved to die for it. She had told me a secret and I failed to keep it, and as a result Cora killed Daniel. So I had to be punished, and everyone else in Fairytale Land with me, from the Reul Ghorm all the way down to the lowest scullery maid. All of us, including our children.'" He looks to Hopper. "Dr. Hopper, how many of the six criteria did you find exhibited in Regina's conduct?'

"All six."

"All six," Rumple-Gold repeats. "Regina Mills is a textbook example of dissocial personality disorder, incapable of feeling guilt or learning from punishment. Dr. Hopper, would this malady explain why Regina committed these acts of evil?"

Hopper adjusts his glasses on his nose. "Her conduct in regard to the 311 charges brought against her can, I believe, best be understood in light of this disorder."

"Are you saying that dissocial personality disorder caused her to commit these evil acts?" Rumple-Gold forces himself to speak slowly. This is a cornerstone of his argument: it's essential that the jury understand it.

"Yes."

"You've been here listening throughout this whole trial. Is she responsible for these 311 acts?"

Charming rises. "Objection. That's for the jury to decide."

Mother Superior thinks it over. "Rephrase the question, Mr. Gold."

"From a psychological standpoint, and in your professional opinion, Dr. Hopper, is Regina morally responsible for these crimes?"

Hopper opens and closes and reopens his mouth. "Yes and no."

"Explain, please."

"Yes, because she committed the acts in full knowledge of the consequences, but no, because her mental condition prohibits her from seeing the right or the wrong in what she does. She has no conscience to stop her from hurting others."

"And as we learned, punishment won't make a difference."

Hopper hangs his head. "Most psychiatrists believe this condition is untreatable. A few of us, however, hold out hope for rehabilitation."

Rumple-Gold allows a moment of silence to pass, to ensure that he has everyone's attention before he asks, "Dr. Hopper, suppose I could show you the cause of Regina's affliction? And suppose I could show you that to eliminate the cause will remove the barriers to treatment?"

Archie's eyes light up. "Oh, Mr. Gold, if only you could. That would be your greatest act of magic."

"If I could make it possible for treatment to be successful, would you treat Regina?"

"Absolutely, Mr. Gold, absolutely."

Rumple-Gold turns to the jury. "Whatever she has done to you and your loved ones—and I'll be the first to admit, revenge would feel damn good—but whatever she has done, Regina Mills is still a human being. If there is a possibility that she can be rehabilitated, aren't we obligated to pursue it? If I'm wrong—if Dr. Hopper tries and he determines Regina is beyond all help, then yes, punish her as you feel you must, then wash your hands of her. But if you have the slightest hope that Regina can be rehabilitated, can your conscience allow you to do any less than to give Dr. Hopper a chance to treat her? As Belle has repeatedly reminded me throughout this ordeal, it's justice, not revenge, that we as a society must seek.

"The defense has finished with this witness. Thank you, Dr. Hopper."

Charming is grinning as he approaches the plate. "Good morning, Dr. Hopper. Just a couple of questions. In all your years of practice and study, have you ever come across a—" he checks his notes—"dissocial personality disorder patient that's been successfully treated?"

"No."

"And Regina is a dissocial personality disorder case."

"Yes."

"An intelligent woman, you said, yet incapable of feeling guilt or remorse or sympathy."

"Yes."

Charming walks back to his table, tossing his notepad on the surface so that it makes a dismissive slap. "I certainly don't want a woman like that walking the streets of my town, whether she's getting therapy or not, and I don't think anyone else in this courtroom does either, except maybe her former partner-in-crime. We're finished with this witness, Your Honor."

Mother Superior checks her watch. "We'll break for lunch. Court will resume at 1:30."

As Emma hauls Regina away, Rumple-Gold gathers his notes. A hand reaching from behind clasps his shoulder, and he turns, the words "_yes, my love"_ forming on his lips. But Belle is two yards behind, in conversation with Marco, and as he rises, moving away from the fairy dust coating the defense table, his sinuses clear and he can smell bread.

The curly-haired guy is standing just behind him. It's difficult to hear over the dozens of conversations going on, so Bread Man leans forward. "He says hang in there."

Rumple-Gold grabs the Bread Man's sleeve as the latter starts to walk away. "Wait. Did Helewise send you?"

"No, He did."

The kid pulls away, but Rumple-Gold won't let him. "Is she all right?"

Bread Man winks. "She wants you to know, when your time comes, one of us will be there for you."

Rumple-Gold holds his breath. "But not her?"

Bread Man shakes his head. "Perhaps not."

"Will it be you?"

Bread Man grins. "Not everything's about you, Rumplestiltskin. I've already got my assignment." He extracts Rumple-Gold's hand from his sleeve before any more questions can be asked, and he fades into the crowd.


	34. Chapter 34

Thirty-Four

The Gold half of the partnership of Rumplestiltskin and Gold doesn't like the plan for today. It's far too risky, he thinks, and the odds are way up there that this will blow up in the defense's face. So Gold is a nervous wreck this morning as he tries to choke down dry toast and tea. . . but Rumplestiltskin crows like Peter Pan because what a show this is going to be!. . . if it works.

Gold (and Rumple too, admitting it or not) bears in mind that he's not alone. _If You don't have my back on this one, stop me now before I bring Hell down on my head._

But no ill omen is sent. The toast does not burn, Belle is dressed and ready to go in plenty of time, the house keys are exactly where he left them last night, the car battery starts, the streets are not flooded or iced over, no one's taken his parking space at the courthouse, the courthouse is not closed for a federal holiday that's been forgotten. . . Gold can't find one lousy excuse to prevent the plan from being execu—no, don't use that word; it's bad luck—to prevent the plan from being carried out.

Still, he tries. "Plea bargain?"

Regina raises an eyebrow, detecting the anxiousness in his voice. "No."

He mumbles, "When you asked for magic lessons, I should've sent you to the fairies."

Regina shrugs. "You're Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful mage in the world—or were, once upon a time. So do something worthy of your legend." She grasps his sleeve and leans into him, hissing, "Get me out of this farce or so help me, you'll rue the day."

"You still think you can beat me, do you?" His knuckles turn white as he latches onto her grasping hand and yanks it off his sleeve.

"There's more than one way to take you down." Regina glances meaningfully at Belle, who's sitting, faithfully and peacefully, in her usual seat right behind Rumple-Gold.

"You fool. I'm the only barrier you've got left between the mob and the guillotine."

"Just remember: I've still got friends out there. If I go down, she goes down, and poor widdle Wumple will spend the west of his lonely little life alone."

"Regina, so help me, when this is over—"

"All rise!"

Maybe it's just as well the day started this way, Rumplestiltskin thinks, because now his blood's on fire and he's ready to blow the roof off this joint.

"Mr. Gold, call your next witness."

Ah, but Mr. Gold's taking a back seat on this one; it's Rumplestiltskin who stands, turns, surveys the jury, then surveys the spectators, then moves to the middle of the floor and faces the closed wooden doors and declares in Gold's voice (because the lower pitch is more authoritative): "The defense calls the being known as the Dark Star, the Black Star, the Source of All Dark Magic, and the Deceiver."

For a second the courtroom is silent and heads turn to those closed doors—which remain closed. Then the murmurs begin. . . then the titters. The judge bangs her gavel and demands silence. She believes this is possible; she knows the Deceiver exists; she grants Rumple-Gold the benefit of the doubt. But as minutes tick by and nothing happens, Rumple-Gold realizes he's going to have to get bossy. He slams his fist onto the defense table, then reaches into his breast pocket, and sunlight catches on the shiny object now in his right hand as he raises it a full arm's length in the air. For weeks afterward, the spectators will debate just what it was he raised in the air, for no one's ever seen it before; only the Blue Fairy knows for sure.

Rumple-Gold's voice reverberates: "Deceiver! The Dark One summons thee!"

And then the entire building shakes, thunder rattles the windows, and the sky outside blackens. Some of the spectators stand as if to run away, but they hastily sit back down when the heavy oak doors fly open and a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome gent of indeterminate age sweeps into the room in his Armani suit. "'Summons thee'?" His voice reverberates too. "'_Summons_ thee'? Who do you think you are, summoning _me_? You're not even one of mine any more; you're nothing but a weak, puny, powerless mortal—born to crawl on his belly and beg for his supper, and then to die, amounting to nothing but food for worms."

Estrilda slips from her seat to her knees, her head bowed.

Rumple stands his ground. He lowers his dagger but keeps it in his hand, though it's no more than a security blanket: nothing known to man can kill the Deceiver. "The Dark One summons thee. Take the witness stand, Deceiver."

"You will address me properly, imp." The Deceiver points a finger at Rumple, and the latter's silk tie pulls loose from its clasp, floats up and wraps itself around Rumple's throat. For a moment he chokes, until he manages to reach past the fairy dust and pull together a weak bubble of magic. He turns the necktie into a butterfly and it drifts away. His voice remains steady. "That tie cost me eighty bucks. Take the witness stand, _Lucifer_."

"'Witness stand'? You're asking _me_, the Eternal Lord of All Evil—" the Deceiver walks up to Rumple and pokes him in the chest—"the Source of All Black Magic, I remind you—the source of _your_ magic. You're asking me to. . . testify? Like some common. . . human?"

"While you're in this world, you will respect our laws. You _will_ testify."

The Deceiver snorts, and then something distracts him; he sniffs and his expression changes. "So," he says in a lower voice to Rumple, "you really are one of them now. You smell like honey. Churns my stomach."

But there's more he's smelling, Rumple knows it: the aroma of magic is especially strong today: the fairies' treacle smell, Regina's ash smell. . . and the smell of freshly baked bread.

Rumple slips the dagger back into his jacket and releases his pent-up breath. "Take the witness stand or I'll ask the bailiff to escort you there."

The Deceiver saunters—his pride won't allow him to move with haste—to the witness stand. He stares at it with distain, then turns his nose up at the judge, for whichever way one prefers to perceive her, as the Blue Fairy or Mother Superior, she's his mortal enemy. He slides into the chair.

Emma makes a mouth. "I don't suppose it would do any good to swear him in."

The Deceiver grunts. "You must be joking."

Rumple-Gold pounces with his first question. "We've heard testimony that you have the ability to remove a person's soul. Can you verify this?"

"Well, of course I can take a soul! It's what I do, it's my stock-in-trade. Everybody knows that."

"Why do you take souls?"

"What is this, Vacation Bible School?" the Deceiver snorts.

"Why do you take souls?"

"To control them, 'Dark One,'" he answers slowly, as if talking to a child. "You're one piss-poor Dark One if you don't know that."

It's awfully tempting to rush this, get the Deceiver off the witness stand and out of the courthouse before he does any damage. But Gold reminds himself he's got a complicated argument to lay out; if he rushes, the whole house of cards tumbles. "How much control do you have over those whose souls you've taken?"

"Depends on how much of the soul I've taken." The Deceiver leans back in the seat and crosses his legs, cluing the audience in that he thinks he owns the room. He lets his eyes roam, and most of the spectators draw back in self-protection.

"Regina Mills is the subject of this inquiry. Is she one of yours?"

"She is indeed. I claim her proudly."

All eyes turn to Regina, who squirms and glares—but not at the Deceiver; her anger is safely trained on Rumple-Gold.

"Does she bear your mark?"

"Well, let's ask her. Stand up, Your Majesty, and show these puny humans you're a chosen one." The Deceiver swirls his finger to order Regina to turn around.

The former queen grips the edges of the defense table. Her arms shudder and her back locks as she fights the command.

"Stand up, darling; don't keep us waiting," the Deceiver's voice is smooth, but a flash of his teeth reveals his growing annoyance.

Regina's body twists and thrusts, and in the end she loses: her hands lose their grip and she rises, turns, and with a groan pulls at her collar, drawing her dress away from her left shoulder. The newly exposed shoulder blade causes quite a commotion.

"Let the record show," says the judge, "the defendant has a black star, two inches by two inches, tattooed on her left shoulder."

"Burned, not tattooed," the Deceiver corrects. "It's my brand, not some Popeye press-on." He makes a sinking gesture with his hand. "You may be seated, darling." And Regina drops back into her chair, readjusting her clothes.

"How much of her soul do you own, Lucifer?"

"My flag flies over every inch of that once-pristine real estate."

"How did you acquire it?" A splash of guilt upsets Rumple-Gold's stomach, because he knows the answer and it's no different from the way his own business has been conducted.

"Contracts, baby, contracts." The Deceiver leans toward the jury box as though he's addressing them confidentially. "This one thinks he invented the whole mercenary magic routine, but I taught him everything he knows." He snaps his fingers at Rumple-Gold. "Give your teachers some credit, you scrawny ingrate."

"Show the court the contract. . . please."

"You fool. You think you're going to find some loophole to worm Regina out of her arrangement with me, don't you?" The Deceiver barks at Rumple-Gold. "I was making contracts with pharaohs centuries before you crushed your first snail, so don't you dare think you can out-deal me, runt."

Rumple-Gold jerks in recognition of that word. For a moment he's back in Loameth, under the thumb of Eustace and Abreda, his four adopted brothers and a sister, all who called him runt and kicked his deformed leg and yanked his hair and—

Rumple-Gold begins to shake, and the Deceiver grins, and Rumple knows that this weakness places him under the demon's thumb but he can't help it; he's a pushed-around reject again, a lame, defenseless runt and—

_Don't_.

He hears his little sister's voice, clear as a church bell: _Get up, Rumplestiltskin. Stand up. _The aroma of freshly baked bread is so strong it brings him back around, and though she's locked away in Wonderland and can't reach him, he senses Helewise standing behind him.

He clears his throat. "Humor me. Show us the contract."

The Deceiver snaps his fingers and a scroll appears in mid-air. It reads itself aloud and the jury listens in slack-jawed amazement. Gold listens, analyzing every word, but of course the contract is iron-clad. Realistically, he hadn't expected to find a deux ex machina in the contract, anyway.

"Every 't' crossed, every 'i' dotted; I even had two witnesses. Oh, and I could see you counting on your fingers: the date the contract was signed was two days after Regina's twenty-first birthday. You won't find a single slip in this document."

"A perfect contract," Rumple-Gold acknowledges. "So you own her soul outright, now and for all time, in return for magic that exceeded her mother's powers by double."

"The most powerful sorceress in the world—at the time." The Deceiver tosses his hand dismissively in Regina's direction. "Of course, that's all over now, but you can't blame me for it: you cast that curse of your own free will, darling, and in full knowledge of what you were giving up. I kept my end of the deal, and I was quite satisfied with the way you carried out yours. And I'd be glad to take you out of this hell-hole. Just say the word and we're out of here, darling child."

Regina is thinking it over.

"Surely you're bored with this lifeless existence. You've played cat-and-mouse with Snow White long enough, Regina. Stop wasting your time and talents on her; I have much bigger game waiting for you." He really is a charmer. The way he smiles and widens his eyes, one would think he cared deeply for his subjects, Rumple thinks, then corrects himself: for his slaves.

But Rumple-Gold has a card up his sleeve too, so he pulls it. He turns to Regina. "Don't forget Henry."

Regina scowls and stares at the table.

Rumple-Gold must get this argument back on track. "So you own Regina's soul lock, stock and barrel, and have for one hundred and fifty years. But she's an independent contractor, isn't she? I mean, she's retained her free will, right?"

The Deceiver snorts. "There's not a single damn thing she's done since she was twenty-one years old that I didn't pre-approve."

Rumple-Gold freezes in mid-step. "Say that again, please."

"You heard me."

"Well, all the evil she's done—all the brilliant schemes that led to suffering on an unprecedented scale—that's all her, isn't it? Her ideas, her implementation. She's the one who deserves all the credit."

"Like hell!" the demon explodes. "It's mine! My ideas, my leadership! You think she could've carried out any of it by herself? She's got the imagination of a gnat and the patience of a hornet. Oh, here and there, I let her do her own thing, but all the big stuff—the murders, the wars, the blackmailings and double-crossings—" he leans forward and grins nastily at his questioner—"the kidnappings and torture—yes—snatching Belle right from under your nose, starving and whipping her—and the psychological torture—that was mine! Me! The credit belongs to me! Just a little payback for your betrayal, 'Dark One.'"

Rumple-Gold starts to shake again; his hands clench and he starts forward. Every revenge fantasy he's ever had against Regina for her torture of Belle floods over him now and in another breath he will leap, thrust his hands around the demon's throat and dig his fingers in and squeeze until the life oozes out of that grinning bastard.

Except. . .there is no life in that grinning bastard. Never has been. He's a walking dead and his fate was written long before he even set foot on the earth.

Rumple-Gold draws in a calming breath and resumes his questioning. "Your ideas, your leadership behind every act of evil Regina Mills has ever done. But she was an adult when she signed that contract. She had a conscience; she could have refused at any time to do your bidding, if she thought it was wrong."

"The conscience goes with the soul, you know that—dearie."

"Are you saying Regina has no conscience?"

The demon smirks. "I suppose you could say she has one of sorts—mine. I tell her what's right and what's wrong, as I do for all my children." He winks at Rumple-Gold. "As I did for you once, my child, until you stopped listening." When Rumple doesn't react, he presses, "Did you ever wonder who your father was, Rumplestiltskin? Ever notice how much alike we are. . . son?"

In two strides Rumple-Gold has planted himself within arm's length of the demon's throat. He plants his hands on the arms of the witness chair. "Give it back. Give Regina's soul back."

The Deceiver bursts out in laughter, and the air in the courtroom suddenly grows cold. He hoots long and loud, wiping his eyes with his silk handkerchief. Rumple-Gold doesn't budge during this outburst, so when the demon has concluded his giggle fit, Rumple persists. "Give it back."

"Oh, I'm sorry: you were _serious_?" The Deceiver folds his hands together. "All right, let me hear your offer."

"Give it back."

The Deceiver prompts, "And? What do I get out of it?"

"Give it back."

"You're getting monotonous, son. Make your offer. Bear in mind that soul's still a nice piece of real estate; your offer had better be good."

"Give it back."

"I'll save us both some time. The only offer I'll entertain is your soul is exchange for hers." The Deceiver sits back in triumph.

"Give it back."

"Chickening out, Rumple? You won't trade?" The Deceiver rises. "You bore me, imp." He flicks his wrist and a burst of lightning emerges from his fingertips, striking Rumple and sending him flying backwards, hitting his head against the prosecution's table. As Charming leans down to assist Rumple, Emma draws her weapon and aims it at the Deceiver's chest. "You're under arrest," she says in a shaky voice.

The Deceiver flicks his wrist at her too and she lands on top of Belle, spilling her to the floor.

Rumple allows Charming to lift him to his feet. He's woozy but the scent of fresh bread helps clear his head, and when he glances to his right he finds the Bread Man is standing there, and in the jury box Beretrude is standing, and behind Rumple in the spectator seats five other people are standing, their eyes fixed on the Deceiver. The devil's eyes flick from one face to another. "Smells like a damn bakery in here." He gives Rumple-Gold a final hard stare. "We're not done by any means, imp." With a snap of his fingers he vanishes.

A collective sigh of relief ripples through the courtroom. As Rumple, staggering a little under a bout of dizziness, rushes to Belle, Mother Superior calls for a recess.

In all the confusion, Regina is ignored. She sits quietly smiling.


	35. Chapter 35

Thirty-Five

As they file back into the courtroom, Charming mutters to Rumple, "I didn't get to cross-examine the last witness."

Rumple chortles. "You want me to call him back?"

"I'll pass. Not sure we can believe anything he says, anyway."

Emma and Belle have been sent to the hospital for closer examination. Whale suspects Belle's pinkie finger is broken and Emma may have sprained an ankle. He also has ordered a MRI for Rumple, to check for concussion, but that will wait; Rumple is determined that the jury will hear his final witness on the heels of the previous one. His head throbs, but worse for him is the absence of his silent supporter. He hadn't realized before just how often during each court session he looked over at that now-empty chair. But he's not alone; the seven who stood up for him an hour ago have demonstrated that.

"Well!" Mother Superior remarks after Leroy, replacing Emma as bailiff, calls the court to order. "That display earlier was. . . quite something, Mr. Gold. I hope you have a less dramatic presentation in store for us this afternoon."

Rumple bows slightly. "Less dramatic, yes, though somewhat problematic."

She settles into her chair and invites the spectators and jury to be seated. "Proceed, then."

He gives Mother Superior a sympathetic look before declaring, "The defense calls its final witness: the Reul Ghorm."

Charming leaps to his feet, shouting, "Objection!" though he isn't sure exactly how to label the nature of his objection. He needn't search for a term, however, for the judge is lodging her own protest. "Mr. Gold! This is highly irregular."

"And unprecedented, I'll grant you that, Your Honor. It's just my bad luck that the witness I need to question happens to have another role in this trial as well. But considering that the verdict will be made by the jury and not Your Honor, I think a conflict of interest can be avoided."

"Mr. Gold, are you absolutely certain you must talk to me and only me?" She spreads her hands flat on her desk, as though seeking stability from it.

"I am certain, Your Honor. Only the Blue Fairy has the information I need for the jury to hear."

"Once again, I object, Your Honor," Charming interrupts. "This is a trick of some kind."

"If you're concerned for my safety, King James, thank you but that's unnecessary. If you're concerned that I will be unable to remain impartial after testifying—"

"You are my last witness, Your Honor," Rumple reminds her. "I intend to wrap up my presentation in less than fifteen minutes."

"You're quite certain?"

"Only the Blue Fairy can answer these questions knowledgeably."

Charming groans as Mother Superior rises. "Very well, Mr. Gold, but if this turns out to be a stunt of some kind, I'm calling a mistrial." She steps down from the bench and crosses in front of him. For such a powerful and ancient being, she is tiny, barely five feet tall, yet Rumple thinks he'd rather wrestle an ogre than to spar with her. Leroy swears her in and she seats herself, smoothing out her skirt.

For a moment Rumple and Mother Superior/Blue Fairy simply stare at each other. In her eyes he sees what he's always seen: cold-blooded judgment, disgust, pity. It's the pity that boils his blood, for she's seen his suffering all these years and she's known the cause, but she's offered neither aid nor comfort. She's just sat there on high judging him and ignoring the pain she's caused Bae.

Her coldness makes the seeming warmth of her counterpart all the more appealing. The Deceiver doesn't sit on high; he's down in the dirt with humanity; when they cry, he cries, or so he leads them to believe. He sees them as individuals, not as a herd being pushed through for branding before it's driven off to the slaughterhouse. He cares about them, one by one, so he tells them—up until they've handed their souls over to him.

But with three centuries of deal-making behind him, Rumple understands the Reul Ghorm a little better now. He realizes now it's by her role, not by her choice, that she sets herself apart. She was created for the big picture; she serves the Source, and it's His plans that she must carry out. Rumple knows now what it must be for her to look back upon her long career: thousands of people pleading, wheedling, demanding she use her magic to fix their problems, and yet they're never happy with the fix, and worse, they never learn. Decade after decade, only the faces change: the problems and people's responses to them remain the same. Whether viewed collectively or individually, humanity makes no progress; it just continues to wallow in its own greed, fear, jealousy and abuse. For an immortal bound from birth to oversee mankind, it must be an awfully frustrating existence.

Regina promises to be no different than the multitude. But Rumplestiltskin is locked in, so he will fight her battle to the last. He has no doubt that during this trial, the Blue Fairy has set aside her ill feelings against him, not for Regina's sake—because the Reul Ghorm bears no affection for any one person—but for duty's sake; and Rumplestiltskin has set aside his grudge against the fairies, not for Regina's sake but, as always, for his own.

He brings his attention back to the trial.

"Thank you," Rumple says. "For the record: in the old world, you were known as the Reul Ghorm, the Blue Star, were you not?"

"Yes."

"How long did you serve in this capacity?"

"I was the longest serving Reul Ghorm in history, nearly four hundred years."

"How did you become the Ruel Ghorm?"

"I was created by the Source of All Magic specifically for that purpose."

"And as the Reul Ghorm, you knew more than anyone else in Fairytale Land about magic in all its forms and uses, did you not?"

"That's correct. I studied for one hundred years before I was assigned to the position, and over the course of four hundred years of service I learned a great deal more, through practice, study and observation."

"Besides magic, the Reul Ghorm must know a great deal about people: their needs, their behaviors, their beliefs, their values. Over the centuries, you must have come to know a great many beings, good, evil and in between."

"Yes."

"In your experience, is evil an inherent quality or a learned behavior, as Dr. Hopper might say? Is one be born evil?"

"No. All sentient beings are born innocent. Evil is made, not born."

"I ask you in your capacity as a spiritual leader in both the old and the new worlds: Are all humans born with souls?"

"All sentient beings are. It's a gift from our creator, just like the body and the mind, and just as vital to our existence."

"What is the purpose of the soul? What does it do?"

"It connects us with God—or as we called Him in the old world, the Source. It enables us to hear Him and be heard by Him. Through it, He guides us, comforts us and reminds us of His love."

"Would you say the soul is how we know right from wrong?"

"Yes. Memory is how we know what the rules are, but the conscience is how we know what's good and what's evil, and the conscience resides in the soul."

"The Black Star testified that the soul and the conscience are linked: without a soul, an individual has no conscience. In your experience, is this statement accurate?"

"It is."

"The Black Star also testified that he's taken Regina's soul. Do you believe this to be possible?"

"Yes. I've seen it before, many times, in the old world." Her expression saddens and she looks at Rumple meaningfully. "I see it now, when I look at you."

"Do your powers permit you to detect the presence a soul?"

"Yes, and its state of health."

"Ruel Ghorm, did the Deceiver lie to us? Does Regina Mills possess a soul?"

Mother Superior closes her eyes briefly as though the truth causes her grief. "She does not."

"Can a soul be restored to its rightful owner?"

"It can, if it has not been too damaged. I have seen it happen, but fewer times than I have seen a star fall from the sky "

"And if the soul is restored, will the individual's conscience be restored as well?"

"Yes."

"Do you think Regina could be restored?"

Charming stands. "Objection. Calls for speculation."

"By an expert on the subject," Rumple points out.

"I will answer the question," Mother Superior decides. "Before restoration can occur, one of two things must happen: either the Black Star must release the soul willingly or the Source must send his messengers to reclaim it. In five hundred years, I have yet to hear of a case in which the Black Star surrendered a soul willingly."

"Under what conditions might the Source's messengers go to battle for a soul?"

Her eyes shine with tears. "Any time the original owner asks."

This answer catches Rumple off-guard. "That's all? Just. . . ask?"

"Just ask, and all the armies of heaven will be marshaled. Just as you, James, have fought wolves with just your staff and a rock to protect a lamb, and you, Rumplestiltskin, have moved heaven and earth to reclaim your son."

He turns away, his head, no longer throbbing, lowered in thought. "All that, for one soul," he murmurs, rubbing his mouth. Then a chair scrapes and he remembers why he's here; he swings back to the witness. "But to my question, Reul Ghorm: can Regina's soul be restored?"

The judge studies the defendant a long time before answering. "If her heart is restored first. Without her heart, she can feel no love, and it's in love that we reach out to other people; it's in love that we seek God. If Regina can love again, I have no doubt she will seek redemption, and when that day comes, all the messengers here and in heaven will rejoice."

"As will all of Storybrooke," Rumple concludes. "Thank you, Reul Ghorm. The defense rests." He moves slowly, still lost in thought, as he returns to his table. He doesn't see the eye-daggers Charming and Whale are shooting at him, for he's made a cross-examination practically impossible: who can question the veracity of a nun? But he does see that Belle has returned, her fingers buddy-splinted, and sits faithfully in her usual seat.

Charming gives it the old college try. At least, the Reul Ghorm has known him long enough not to take personal offense to his questioning. "Good afternoon, Blue. Thank you for your stirring testimony. It does us all good to be reminded of the bigger picture. But, ah, I need to ask a few questions about your testimony." He checks his legal pad. "You said that you've seen very few times that a soul has been reclaimed from the Deceiver, fewer times than you've seen 'stars fall from the sky.' How many cases do you know of in which the Deceiver has taken a soul?"

"Over five hundred years, that many again."

"Five hundred. And of those, in how many were the souls restored?"

She looks at her hands. "Fewer than five."

Charming figures it in his head. "One percent, then. In fewer than one percent of the cases did the rightful owner get his soul back from the Deceiver. So, realistically, the odds are almost nil that Regina will ever be any different from the evil thing she is now."

The Ruel Ghorm digs her fingernails into the wooden arms of the witness chair. "You didn't stop to calculate the odds before you fought off those wolves, did you, James?"

"How far gone is she, Blue? Realistically, is there anything left in Regina to save?"

She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, and they know she's reading Regina. When she opens her eyes again, she admits, "There is little to hope for—but there is reason to hope. Regina wants to love Henry; for him, she wants to do what's right. That may be enough." Her gaze passes from Regina onto Rumple and lingers there. "Never underestimate a parent acting for their child." And then she looks at Charming. "I recall a father fighting to his last breath to protect his newborn daughter. That's what love can do. I have no doubt that if Regina can love, she can change."

Beside Rumple, Regina stirs; under the table he slips her his handkerchief and when no one's looking she dabs her eyes.

Behind Rumple, Belle stirs. The imp glances back at her, permitting her to see the moisture in his eyes, so that she will know what he's thinking: _I love. I can change._ And he realizes there have been two trials going on here: Regina's and his own.


	36. Chapter 36

Thirty-Six

During the recess, Rumple-Gold paces while Regina, in her best game face, flips through a magazine. It's all he can do to keep from grabbing that _Cosmo_, rolling it up and slapping her upside the head with it.

Leroy calls them back to work.

Rumple-Gold glances around the courtroom, assessing his chances with the spectators. He expects to see determination, anger, and for a few, pity or sympathy, but what he finds is bewilderment, except for Belle of course, who tries to smile encouragingly. He also finds that Estrilda is gone. He leans back in his chair to whisper to Leroy, "Where's Cora?"

"Hospital," Leroy reports. "Whale took her. She keeled over a few minutes ago."

Regina listens and shrugs. "My mother the drama queen. She can't give me a moment in the spotlight even when it's my own trial."

Leroy twists his mouth in disgust. Rumple-Gold mutters, "Shut up, Regina."

"Closing arguments, please, gentlemen," Mother Superior calls as she resumes her place at the bench. "James, you may proceed."

Slowly and grimly, the king reads a list of names, beginning with Snow's. It's a ten-page list of Regina's victims, though by no means comprehensive: some of Regina's victims will remain unknown to posterity. After each name James gives a few words of identification: "Snow White, daughter of King Leopold, princess of Arorven, wife of James and mother of Emma. Leopold, father of Snow, husband of Regina and king of Aroreven." He glances at the defense table when he comes to "Belle of the Highlands, daughter of Duke Maurice and beloved of Rumplestiltskin."

He even has Cora on the list, made a victim when Regina banished her to Wonderland. About the only name not given as a victim is, appropriately, Rumplestiltskin. When Charming finishes the list, he takes a long sip of water, giving the jury time to reflect. His voice as he resumes is a bit raw. "These are the souls that matter. Forget all that pseudo-pyscho-theological hokus pokus my 'worthy opponent' tried to pull on you. These are the souls that matter: women, children, the elderly, all innocent victims of Regina's greed, power-lust and spoiled-rich-girl tantrums.

"Had her heart stolen by her mother? Her soul possessed by demons? Suffered an early childhood trauma? You know what? She's still responsible. No one held a gun to her head and made her commit three hundred and eleven crimes. _She_ went to the devil all on her own and asked for a deal. That was her signature on the contract—she didn't deny it. That was her hand yanking out her father's heart and crushing it. That was her hand yanking out Graham's heart and crushing it. That was her mouth ordering the Huntsman to execute Snow. That was her mouth ordering the genie to kill Leopold." He stabs a finger at the list repeatedly. "That was her, that was her, that was her—" he wheels and points toward the defense table—"and that is her, sitting there with her Saks Fifth Avenue suits and her Chanel perfume and not a hair out of place as she listens to report after report of the damage she's done, the lives she's destroyed.

"You heard it all. You heard report after report after report. How can you even think of letting her go after all that?" He tosses the list onto his table and leans on his hands on the bar delineating the jury box. "This isn't about revenge. This isn't about getting even. This is about justice for the souls that Regina victimized. And this is about your safety and your children's. Do not let this woman loose. Do not let these victims be forgotten. Do what's right and find Regina Mills guilty on all three hundred and eleven counts."

* * *

Rumple-Gold has prepared an eloquent speech, peppered with references to Plato, Kant, Gandhi, King and Shakespeare. It's a thing of beauty, and entirely worthy of Rumplestiltskin, but when he approaches the jury box, his attention falls upon Beretrude, who's watching him solemnly—but encouragingly. Her gaze informs him she will give him every chance to persuade her, and suddenly Gold wants to talk to her, just talk, not pontificate, one old soul to another, never mind the shiny words and the grand quotations, never mind Rumplestiltskin and his showmanship.

He follows his instinct. His voice is slow and painted with a Highland brogue as he focuses on Beretrude. "When Regina was three days old, I came to her home and tried to take her." He allows that thought to sink in. "She was payment for a deal I'd made with her mother. I tried to take her, with the intention of trading her to an elf who had a book I wanted. But her mother talked me into another deal, something she knew I wanted far more."

His voice strengthens and he tears his gaze from Beretrude to make eye contact with the other jurors, one by one. "The curse that brought us here and broke up your happy homes—I created it." Again, he allows time for the jurors to consider. "But I couldn't cast it. I lacked the courage. Not because I feared what it would do to me or anyone else-by that point, I was long past caring—but because the curse required that the caster kill the thing he loved the most." He glances over his shoulder at Belle, who looks back at him in shock. "So instead of taking the baby away, I plotted with her mother to create in Regina—to create in this three-day-old baby—a mind so twisted and a heart so broken that as an adult, she could murder her own father and throw his heart into an inferno. And so that was how Regina was raised.

"When Regina was barely eighteen years old, she found her one true love. Cora told you about him: a stable boy named Daniel. But Cora had arranged for Regina to marry a king and she would have it no other way; she had determined her daughter would become a queen. So when Regina and Daniel prepared to elope, Cora. . . Cora thrust her hand into Daniel's chest, withdrew his beating heart and crushed it into dust, with Regina standing by in horror, helpless to prevent it. At eighteen, Regina witnessed her own mother killing the man she loved. And then a few months later, as Regina slept, Cora entered her bedroom, thrust her hand into Regina's chest and withdrew her heart and locked it in a box. You heard Cora's admission. You saw the heart.

"A short time after, Regina decided to take revenge on her mother. Without a heart, you see, the only thing left to stop her from killing Cora was Cora's magic, and so Regina went to the Black Star and offered up her eternal soul in exchange for the power that would allow her to crush the two women that Regina found guilty for Daniel's death: Cora and Snow. And then I came along and twisted her mind with tales of destiny and promises of the sweet release that only revenge can give, and I taught her how to use the magic she'd bought at such a precious price—I, the Dark One, son of Lucifer."

He throws his hands up in frustration. "What chance, what chance did she have, when her own mother stood with the Dark One over her crib and doomed her to such a future? How could anyone imagine she would become anything else but evil?" He has to turn his back to the jury for a moment to collect himself. When he returns to them, his voice is quiet.

"I have shown you that Cora stole her own daughter's heart, snatched it from her in order to control her; and that as a result, Regina is incapable of compassion, sympathy or love. As I presented the evidence, I watched you closely, and I saw that you believed. For some of you, belief was not a challenge: in the old world, you had heard of the Queen of Hearts and her vault. Odds are, with more than ninety hearts in that vault, you may have even known one of her victims. Cora herself admitted the theft; Regina's conduct time and time again has demonstrated the fact that she has no heart.

"I have shown you, and Dr. Hopper verified it, that the Black Star took her soul, marked her as his property, bestowed upon her the power to destroy, made her his slave and sent her out to do his bidding, to murder and torture and steal and lie in his name, all the while leading her to think that what she was doing was her own work, not his.

"But it was always his work, not hers. His bidding." Gold bites off the next bitter words: "His bidding, and Cora's, and mine."

He can't look them in eye any more. He turns aside. "She never stood a chance against the Queen of Hearts, the Deceiver and the Dark One. Never had a prayer in this world of becoming anything but what she became. But you heard the Reul Ghorm: Regina's hope rests in Henry. Her life rests with you."

The heels of his leather shoes echo in the courtroom as he returns to the defense table.

* * *

Back in the sheriff's office, Emma hobbles in from the hospital to guard the prisoner. Rumple-Gold waits with Regina for the verdict to come in. For the first time, she seems to be taking this seriously: she asks the procedure for the sentencing. He explains how it normally works: the judge decides, since Maine has no death penalty. She points out that the laws of Maine may not exactly apply any more, and in Fairytale Land the penalty for murder is death by guillotine. He promises to appeal if she's found guilty, but they both know that would be a waste of time. He brings her a cup of coffee and they wait.

"I did do it all," Regina shrugs. Her matter-of-fact tone startles him, even though he believes his own argument and knows she has no conscience and no empathy.

After that, they sit in silence. Emma busies herself with paperwork, the scratch of her pen the only sound in the office.

They don't notice that the sun goes down. Belle brings in sandwiches, which are left untouched. Even Emma lacks an appetite: she's worried what this is doing to Henry. Belle repacks the sandwiches and Rumple sends her home to rest.

Sometime in the evening Whale comes in and speaks to Regina in private. Regina simply stares at her fingernails, then lies back on her cot and stares at the ceiling. Whale grunts as he turns to leave, but Rumple-Gold calls him back. "Whale? You have news about Estrilda—about Cora?"

"Yeah," he loosens his tie; it's been a long day. "But since you're not a relative, I can't—"

"I am. I was." Rumple reddens. "I was. . . I was married to her for a short while."

Whale raises an eyebrow and a sly smile creeps upon his lips. Such juicy gossip will surely score him a date with Ruby. "Married? The Dark One and the Queen of Hearts?"

Rumple scowls. "No. A spinner and a farm girl." He puts on a Gold face and Whale gulps. "Tell me."

"She, uh, has colon cancer. Inoperable."

Rumple has to say it aloud to accept it: "She's going to die."

"Yeah. That doesn't happen much here, does it?"

Rumple wants to punch Whale out, until Gold reminds him that Emma's watching and he's already got one assault charge against him.

Whale saunters off and Rumple sits back down on the Naugahyde couch.

Grumpy and Doc relieve Emma, who goes home to Henry and Snow.

"_Has the jury reached a verdict?"_

"_Yes, Your Honor." Beretrude stands. "We find the defendant, Rumplestiltskin, guilty."_

Doc is shaking Rumple-Gold's shoulder. "Hey, you okay?"

Rumple rubs his face. "What? Why?"

"You were mumbling in your sleep."

"Oh."

"Anyway, you can go home now," Doc continues. "The jury's adjourned for the night. Sequestered at Granny's."

Regina is sleeping, her knees drawn up to her chest. Rumple stands and stretches. "Yeah. Good night, fellas."

* * *

**A/N. So where do you think this should go? Did you accept Rumple-Gold's argument? **


	37. Chapter 37

Thirty-Seven

After he leaves Regina, Rumple-Gold stops by his cabin to pick up a particular item and wrap it in colorful paper, then he drops in at the hospital. Mother Superior is already there, sitting straight-arrow beside the bed; she's talking about the convent's garden. She's not trying to convert Estrilda: Rumple gives her credit for that. Estrilda will have to come around on her own, if at all. Mother Superior and Rumple-Gold exchange a nod, then she excuses herself and promises to return tomorrow evening. She gives Rumple-Gold a wispy smile as she brushes past him, and he wonders if she knows already about his history with Estrilda.

The guard glances up from his newspaper just long enough to identify the visitor; he knows Gold, of course, so he pretends to resume his reading, though his ears are wide open for any tasty gossip to take back to his wife.

Rumple frowns and with a little magic turns the volume down on the guard's hearing. Rumple and Estrilda will be able to talk without being heard. The appointment of a guard seems a waste of taxpayer dollars: one look at Estrilda, lost in a forest of medical equipment, is enough to convince anyone she's not about to run away. As Rumple approaches her, he draws in her scent: it's musty and flaky, like the pages of an uncared-for old book. Her ash smell is gone. He can no longer see a remnant of the clever witch or the sixteen-year-old bride.

"Hello, Estrilda." He doesn't ask how she feels; she wouldn't be able to tell him, for all the drugs that are dripping into her veins.

"Rumple." She doesn't try to sit up. "Is it over?"

He pulls a chair close to her bed, and it's then he notices the chain running from the bed frame and under her blanket, to her ankle, he suspects. With a subtle move, he makes the chain disappear, for now; he'll replace it when he leaves.

"Thanks." She wiggles her leg to enjoy the freedom.

"The jury is out. Finished for the night. They'll start again at nine."

"Will they find her guilty, do you think?" Her tone reveals only curiosity.

"Yes."

"And will they execute her?"

He answers slowly. "I think they've lived in Storybrooke long enough to have lost their taste for the guillotine." He changes the subject. "Is there anything I can bring you? Books? A radio?"

"I can't concentrate long enough to read. Something coming from that bag up there makes me constantly sleepy. What is a radio?"

He offers to bring one tomorrow. Then he remembers the item he brought from his cabin; he sets it in her lap.

"What's this?"

"Something that belongs to you."

She rips off the paper to reveal an ornate silver comb. She holds it, studying it, trying to remember, and then she drops it in her lap in surprise. "There's magic in this." She picks the comb up again. "My magic."

"Just a little. It's a small comb." Not enough she can do any harm with it, but perhaps enough to help her feel like herself again, for a day or two.

She turns the comb over and over until she remembers. "Oh, yeah, you bought this for me, from the marketplace at Asurwen. You brought this and a book and six ducats for the someday jar. It was the day you taught me to read."

"I thought we were rich," he chuckles.

"Rumplestiltskin," she whispers abruptly, "they won't tell me anything but I can feel it: I'm going to die."

He doesn't know what to say, so he squeezes her hand.

"I've called and called," her voice is small, like a child's, "but he won't answer me. My master has abandoned me."

"You don't need a master any more, Estrilda. You're free."

"But I don't want to be free." She peers at him so pitifully he has to look away. "Why is this happening to me? Is it because he left me?"

"We're human, here."

"I'd forgotten what it means to be human," she admits.

They lapse into silence. Then she recalls something odd. "Rumplestiltskin, when I was in the room with the big machines, I met a man; tests were being done on him too. We talked while we were waiting for the doctors. He told me he was a tailor in Aroreven. On the day the curse—on the day Regina cast the curse, he was dying. He wasn't expected to last the day, but he was swept up in the curse and when he awoke he was here, in this hospital, hooked up to machines."

Rumple smiles hopefully. "That was twenty-nine years ago. Modern medicine must have cured him, then."

"No." She cocks her head. "This is the strange part. Every day for twenty-eight years, he woke up in this hospital, hooked up to machines, on the verge of dying but not dying. When the curse broke, his sickness changed and his body began to deteriorate. He told me he's happy now, because he's no longer on the verge of dying; he is dying at last." She fiddles with her comb. "Rumplestiltskin, the curse kept that man trapped between life and death for twenty-eight years. Our curse."

He lapses into silent thought, and she seems to fall asleep, but when a nurse's aide comes by to announcing the end of visiting hours, she rouses. "Will you come tomorrow?"

She's forgotten already that he had said he would. "Yes, of course. I don't know if I can arrange it, if I can, should I bring Regina?"

She picks at a loose thread in her blanket before answering, "Not yet."

He rises to leave, and she calls out again. "Rumplestiltskin?" When he pauses to listen, she continues, "I hope it goes fast."

As he bids her goodbye he wonders if it's the trial she's referring to, or her disease.

* * *

There's no way of telling with juries, he tells Regina the next morning. Contrary to common belief, a quick verdict doesn't necessarily suggest conviction or exoneration.

She's eating the scrambled eggs Emma brought her and pays no attention to him. At first he's insulted, and then he remembers that anything he thinks he knows about juries or the law may not be accurate anyway, since Gold's law degree is no more real than Gold himself.

Then Rumple decides he doesn't accept that. He remembers something Gold read once in a book he gave Henry: _"Real isn't how you were made. It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. . . __Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand... once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."_

Well, Gold has been losing some hair, and he has gone gray, and at more than the temples. Maybe a child out there loved him a long, long time.

Thinking about that book makes him think about his promise to the Hatter. Regina doesn't seem to care one way or another if he waits with her; Emma brought her a tall enough stack of _Cosmo_s, _People_s and _Vogue_s to keep her busy all morning. So he arranges a meeting at Jefferson's with Paige and her parents. He wants to hear from Paige herself, who's nearly twelve, and who, since the curse broke, has spent a little time with her natural father, but he doesn't want to talk to her without her parents being present. He's hoping to persuade the adults to accept a joint custody arrangement, if Paige is amenable, and to do that he needs to establish an atmosphere of open communication and trust.

Jefferson surprises him: the Hatter offers to have a catered brunch brought in. Maybe this can work. When all the parties have arrived, Rumple-Gold suggests a tour of the house, so that Elsa and Peter Rhodes can see where their daughter will be spending time. He's hesitant to make this suggestion, lest they run in horror when they see the hat room, but no caring parent would agree to sharing custody with a man whom they haven't checked out first. Jefferson surprises him again: the hat room is now a pink bedroom with a canopy bed and miniature furniture and stuffed animals. Rumple suspects Paige will find it charming, despite the fact that it's about four years too young for her. As they move along to the study, Rumple whispers to Jefferson, "What happened to the—" he makes a hat-tipping motion.

"Took them to the Salvation Army. I don't need them any more."

Mrs. George of George's Taverna has the brunch ready in the dining room, everything from fresh fruit and yogurt to eggs benedict. Wisely, alcohol has been left off the menu: instead, there's an assortment of teas, coffees and juices. As he takes a seat, Gold wonders about Jefferson's source of income, as he neither toils nor spins. . . .nor sells hats.

He nudges the conversation into icebreakers: compliments on the food and the décor, which the Rhodeses politely echo, then little factoids that are designed to prove how much the two households have in common, lest the Rhodeses feel their modest income inadequate against Jefferson's. Gold points out that Jefferson (well, truthfully, Jefferson's gardener) raises roses, and so does Elsa; Jefferson is a student of American history, and so is Peter. As he intended, the factoids nudge Paige's three parents onto common ground and soon they're chatting easily over their eggs, allowing Gold to chat with Paige. With her, he gets right to the point, whispering, "Paige, what do you think? I can arrange it with the law so that you have two families. You could live here some days and at your other home the rest of the time. Would you want to do that?"

She draws circles in her yogurt as she considers. "It's kind of far. I don't think I can walk that far."

"Oh, I'm sure the transportation can be worked out. Jefferson has a car and so do your mom and dad."

"Jefferson's my dad," she corrects him, and that tells him what he needs to know.

"Would it be okay, having two homes?"

"Will you fix it for me, Mr. Gold?" She sounds so grown up.

"I will."

"But I can't pay you. I'm too young to babysit and I spent all my allowance on an Ipod."

He tries not to chuckle. "Jefferson already paid me."

She pops a strawberry into her mouth. "Do I need to sign something?"

"That might not be a bad idea. Okay, let's bring the parents in on this discussion."

The agreement is worked out and witnessed by Mrs. George before the last croissant is consumed. Gold can be very persuasive when he wants to be, though not nearly as charming as Rumplestiltskin.

* * *

All right. Rumple-Gold admits to himself that he's tying up loose ends, as though he, not Regina, may be sent to the guillotine or prison at any moment. He remembers something his mother used to say: "In for a penny, in for a pound." And then he remembers the childhood in Scotland is a fiction; his home was a pig farm and his mother, if she could be called that, was Abreda.

From his car he calls Belle, who answers on the seventeenth ring, shouts into the phone, then accidentally hangs up on him: it's only her second phone call, ever. He calls back and invites her to the shop.

"Oh? Are you going to open today?"

"No, I just thought you might be—no, I'm sorry, Belle, that's not the truth. I wanted to teach you how I run the shop so you could run it in my absence."

"Oh. . . ."

A question hangs between them, but he interrupts it; he really doesn't want to discuss this over the phone. "I'll explain it all later. See you there, love."

What he's about to do is a compromise between the impulsive demand of Rumplestiltskin and the cautious consideration of Gold. He's preparing himself for his own future based on the likely future he predicts will be delivered to Regina: they're both going to jail for a very long time. And that brings into question Belle's future. She's her own woman, of course, and will make her own choices, but she's so new to this world and she's come with nothing, not even an employment history to get her started in a life alone. He believes she has committed herself to him, as he has to her, though no promises have been spoken; and that commitment is her misfortune. Rumplestiltskin thinks the solution is to marry her, right now—well, all right, after the state-required three-day wait. Let them enjoy each other in the short time they have left, and bind her to him so that she will wait until his imprisonment is over. Rumple remembers the loneliness of prison. Visits from a wife would have helped immensely. And there's a practical side too: as his wife, Belle would have a home and plenty of money. Doesn't he owe her that much, after denying her of both in their previous lives? Doesn't he want that for her?

But the prudent Gold believes it's selfish to tether a young woman to an old man who well may die in prison. Set her free and give her a future with a husband who comes home to her at night, who can hold her, make love to her, give her children. Doesn't he owe her that much? Doesn't he want that for her?

Rumple-Gold will give her an option that will buy her the time she needs to decide for herself.

When she arrives, her hair still damp—she explains she'd been in the shower when he called—he has two legal documents waiting. They are simple, standard forms but they will change Belle's life if she signs them.

"What were you saying about me running the shop?" She asks as she dashes in the back door. He pulls out a chair at his work table and invites her to sit, and then he draws in a chair for himself.

This must be a slow conversation; it's too painful to take any other way. "It's not going well for Regina."

Belle lowers her head. "The guillotine?"

"No. It's fear more than rage that I see in their eyes. But they may banish her to an uninhabited land, so she can't hurt anyone again, or they may imprison her for the rest of her life."

"I'm sorry, Rumple." Belle takes his hands in hers. "You tried so hard. You did everything you could do."

"Belle. . . ." He draws in a deep breath. "It won't go any better for me."

"You're still thinking of turning yourself in."

"Everything Regina did, I did, and thrice over. There's always a price, and I've been skipping out paying it for three hundred years. I was eternal; I supposed I was above that law. But I'm not eternal any more. I'm as vulnerable as anyone else." He thinks for a moment, choosing his words. "In the old days, I knew of course there was a greater power than mine: I'd seen the Black Star's work time and time and time again. I felt his existence just as certainly as you feel the air on your skin. When the Dark One came to live in me, the Black Star had a direct line to me. Part, though not all, of my soul belonged to him.

"The Source, though, was another matter. In all my travels and all my existence, I have never seen Him, never even heard His voice. I've met many who believed, but none who could offer proof. In theory, it made sense that such a power would exist: any mage knows the universe demands balance; that's why magic has a price. So it would make sense that in a world with a Black Star and a Dark One, there would be a Morning Star and a Reul Ghorm. But since the Source never made Himself known to me, as far as I could tell, I forgot about Him. Maybe I thought He just didn't give a damn what happened to us belly-crawlers.

"But then, I don't know why, but something made me call out to Him. I'd never done that before. I'd certainly been desperate enough, but I never took the chance. I suppose I thought He'd never listen to the Dark One. But the curse was about to break and I could feel forgiveness coming, and, gods, Belle, I wanted it. I realized that it wasn't just Bae that I'd been searching for all those years: it was his forgiveness. His and yours and Snow's and everyone else's, even Regina's. I didn't just want it: I couldn't live without it any more.

"So I started talking to the Morning Star. I just wanted a sign that I was on the right track, but He answered me in a way that I never could have imagined, even in my wildest dark dreams." His lips twitch with overpowering emotion. "My little bell out there rang, and I turned around and there you were."

"Oh, Rumple," she breathes.

He shakes his head. "I'll never figure it out. After all the things I've done. The legends you heard about me, just the tip of the iceberg, because unlike my predecessors, no one controlled me. That meant the mayhem I caused was purposeless and unfocused. Oh, I did quite a bit of good, too, when the fancy struck, or when it enabled me to get something I wanted. In a way, I suppose that was worse, because I was unpredictable. People would trust me and then I'd. . . ." He clenches his fist as though catching and squashing a mosquito.

"And the Morning Star sent me you. I'll never figure it out. Instead of tearing me limb from limb, He sent me you. And lest there be a shade of doubt left in me, just before I left for Wonderland, He sent me one of His messengers. She accompanied Jefferson and me to Wonderland. Belle, do you know the rule of realm portals?"

She shakes her head.

"The same number of people who enter the portal must return through it. Otherwise no one can. Since we were bringing Estrilda back—"

Belle catches on. "Someone had to stay behind. But you and Jefferson came back."

"The Morning Star's messenger stayed behind."

"Oh, my gods. He must really love Estrilda, to sacrifice one of his own for her." Another thought hits her hard. "Rumple, you knew when you went into Wonderland that someone would have to stay behind. Were you—"

"No, not exactly. Do you remember, right after the curse broke, how for a little while you heard voices in your head?" When she nods, he continues, "My curse broke before everyone else's. When I created the curse, I built a trigger mechanism, so that as soon as the curse-breaker arrived in town, I'd remember. I figured she'd need a little help, so I took back my memories before everyone else. When my curse broke, for several months I had two very different people living in my head: Rumplestiltskin and Gold. I finally found a way, through magic, to bring the two together, but for a while there, it was crazy. And so when I was preparing to go through the portal, I tried to use magic to separate myself again. I failed, and that's when the messenger arrived, an answer to a prayer I wasn't even aware I'd prayed."

"Sounds like He really loves you, too."

"Belle, I'm not immortal any more. I'm going to die someday. If I don't pay now for all the damage I've done, I'll have to pay then."

"That's why you're going to plead guilty."

"It's what I have to do. Can you understand me, Belle?" _Will you forgive me?_

"I don't want to be apart from you," she protests. "Not again."

"I don't want to be apart from you, either. I can't run any more, Belle." He studies his hands. "No magic, no deals, no lies can get me out of this. The thing is, I'm hoping once I've balanced the scales, the Morning Star—the True Morning Star—will take me back."

"However long it takes, I'll wait for you."

"I know you'll always love me, Belle, but you deserve a life, a home, a husband and children. I may not have a life to give you."

She blanches. "Do you think they'll execute you?"

He doesn't mention that he's been carrying his dagger in his jacket every day since the trial began, just in case one of his enemies harbors revenge fantasies. "No, I think very few of them hate me that much. But I think Regina's fate will be my fate."

"If they banish you, I'll follow. Where you go, I'll go. If they lock you up here or send you away, I'll go too. I'll find work, a place to live, and I'll come to you every day, for as long as they allow, and when they release you, I'll be waiting."

He takes her in his arms and strokes her hair. "If you ever change your mind, I'll understand. After all you've been through, you don't deserve this too."

"I deserve to love and be loved by the man of my choice, don't I? And it just may be that the one I chose is the one the Morning Star chose for me."

He can't argue with that. He releases her and shows her the documents he's prepared. "Well then!" He clears his throat. "I have a business proposition for you, a new career, if it interests you. This is a power of attorney. It gives you the right to make decisions concerning this shop and my rental properties. And this document is a contract that provides compensation in return for your work. The compensation package includes a salary and fifty percent ownership in everything."

She gapes at the contract. She has little concept of this world's money yet, but she's sharp and will learn, and Emma and Snow will answer any questions she has. "That's a lot of zeroes after that seven."

"It's a lot of work. Of course, as part owner, you can hire a clerk or a property manager, but the final decisions will be up to you."

"And you," she insists. "I wouldn't do anything major without consulting you."

"If I can, I will, but these documents give you legal authority to make business decisions without me." A smile tweaks his mouth. "Just. . . Belle, don't give away the store, okay?"

Her eyes brighten. "Hey, there's an idea. I'm sure you always intended to get these things back to their rightful owners once the curse broke, didn't you? So why don't we do that now? Give it all back."

"Give it back?" He yelps. "Back, yes, but—_give_? Gratis?"

"If you want Estrilda and Regina to give back those hearts, maybe you should set the pace, eh?"

* * *

**A/N. The quotation above is from Margery Williams' _The Velveteen Rabbit_. **

**Well, so far the theories I've pursued in "Spinning" are not surviving Season 2 very well, but I still feel confident that two of my theories will bear out: I think we'll learn that there is a power greater than Rumple's and the Blue Fairy's, and I think Rumple will redeem himself. **


	38. Chapter 38

Thirty-Eight

As soon as he awakens, he checks his voice mail. He releases a breath when he finds no messages: it means the jury is still out and Estrilda is still alive.

And downstairs, Belle waits. She's the morning sunshine, filling his kitchen with soft light and gentle warmth. This week she's experimenting with recipes from a book on Southern cooking, so she has biscuits and cream gravy, sliced ham, and grits waiting when he comes down the stairs. It's a most remarkable thing, and he tells her so: she's managed to surprise him with dishes he's never tasted in three hundred years of living. The fare goes perfectly well with the cup of Earl Grey she sets beside his plate.

As he watches her move about the kitchen, which she has rearranged to suit her own expediency, his body tugs at him. Any minute, the phone could buzz, setting into motion the events that will lead his incarceration. Shouldn't he take advantage of the moment now before them, sweep aside all this food and set her on this table instead, lay her back against the cleared surface and pepper her mouth and her throat with kisses she will remember when he's gone?

"What should we do today?" she asks brightly as she sits down across from him, spooning sugar into her tea.

A slow smile spreads across his face.

The phone buzzes. His daydream retreats as he flips the phone open. "Just checking in," Emma greets him. "Leroy says she behaved herself last night. Her housekeeper stopped by and left some magazines, but after that, Regina was quiet as a mouse."

"Yeah. Well, wasn't it mice that started the Black Plague? Keep me posted. I'll be by later. Anything you need me to bring?"

"Since you'll be passing by the bakery anyway—"

"Bear claws. Got it." He snaps the phone shut and picks up his knife and fork, cutting the ham into bites. "To return to your question, my love: I thought we might borrow Marco's van and start making some deliveries."

She raises an eyebrow. "What are we delivering?"

"A pair of bicycles, a canoe, several lamps, assorted musical instruments, a gramophone, paintings, clocks—"

She sets her spoon down. "You're going to do it. You're really going to do it."

"It's time to let go," he answers.

* * *

They start with the trio of swords that are displayed on the wall near the front door; the rightful owners are a trio of sword-fighters who just recently learned they're a family.

By late afternoon, they've barely made a dent in the shop's holdings—two-thirds of the objects in the shop had come from the old world—but they've succeeded is sending nearly every householder in town into shock. Belle has kept a count and reports that no less than ninety-seven percent of the residents they've visited today have asked the same two questions when offered the return of their precious possessions: "What's the price?" and then "What's the catch?"

Rumple-Gold suspects rent collection will go much easier from now on.

Exhausted, they suspend the effort for the day; tomorrow Happy and Henry will assist, and word-of-mouth will bring people into the shop of their own accord to claim property. Rumple-Gold drops Belle off at the house so she can wash up, then he continues on to the hospital before afternoon visiting hours expire. He brings an unowned radio from the shop.

He stays just long enough to teach Estrilda how to operate the radio, and then visiting hours expire and he's chased out. As he rounds the block for home, he finds the squad car parked in his driveway and Emma standing with Belle on the front porch. The front door stands open. He parks the Caddy in the street and runs up the steps, shouting, "What happened?"

Emma glances up from her notebook, in which she's been writing. "Your girlfriend fought off an assailant, that's what."

"Who—what?" He seizes Belle's arm and looks her up and down.

"I'm okay, just shaken up," she reports. She leans down and picks up a pebble from the porch. "This saved me. Well, and magic."

His glance flashes back and forth between the women. "Somebody tell me—"

Belle interrupts, "Stop worrying." Her face glows, and that makes him relax. "After you dropped me off, I went inside and took a shower and started supper." She smiles at Emma, "Taco night. You want to join us?"

"Thanks, but I need to hunt down this assailant," Emma reminds her.

"Oh, sure. I'll bring some by your office later—"

"Somebody tell me what happened!" Gold insists.

"I'd just started dicing the tomatoes when I heard a knock on the front door. I answered it and some guy with a wool hat pulled down over face—"

"Ski mask," Emma explains.

"Grabbed me and dragged me down the stairs. He got me out onto the lawn and then I gave him one of these." She jerks her knee up.

"To the groin," Emma adds.

"And he let me go, and then I—" she wiggles her fingers over the pebble. "_Lapidem in_—You know the rest. I heard him run off, and then I—" she wiggles her fingers again.

"I've got to go look for this guy before he grabs some woman whose boyfriend didn't teach her a rock spell," Emma slips the notebook into her jacket and moves to the squad car.

Rumple-Gold hugs Belle tightly, but after a moment she pushes him away. "You don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself."

"Yes, you can."

"I would like to learn a couple more spells, though. In case I can't find a pebble."

"Regina," he mutters, remembering the witch's threat. He starts back down the stairs, over his shoulder throwing a protective spell around the house. "I'll be back soon, Belle. Go inside."

"Where are you going?" she shouts after him. "What are you going to do?"

He runs to the Caddy, then thinks better of it and snaps his fingers, transporting himself to the sheriff's office, where he finds an unconscious Dopey slumped in the hall. The odor of ash is overwhelming; he coughs to clear it from his lungs. He leaps over the dwarf and dashes into the holding cell area, where he has to step over an unconscious Sleepy. The door to Regina's cell stands open, its lock melted into a puddle on the floor.

In the center of the room, his back turned to the entrance, stands the Deceiver. At Rumple-Gold's entrance he swings about, tall and handsome and elegant—and both pissed off at the intrusion and bemused by the identity of the intruder. "Ah, Rumplestiltskin, my son, how good of you to join us."

Under his protective arm hovers Regina, her cheeks flushed, her lips plumped. Rather than her usual Saks ladies' business wear, she's dressed in flowing layers of red silk that flatter her figure and her dark, glazed eyes and complement the Deceiver's black silk shirt, red brocade waistcoat and red leather trousers.

It's not lost on Rumple-Gold that the Deceiver's selection in attire could easily have come from Rumple's closet. Intentional, Rumple-Gold supposes.

"We shall be departing for home momentarily," the Deceiver announces in his international accent. "As soon as I restore my lady to her rightful status. Have you come to bid us bon voyage. . . or to accompany us and reclaim your place in the family?"

Rumple-Gold ignores the invitation and the inviter. He takes a hesitant step forward and tries to catch Regina's gaze, but she's locked on the demon, her expression a mixture of puzzlement, admiration, fascination and lust. She's gripping the Deceiver's waist as though afraid he might disappear if she lets go. When Rumple-Gold glances again at the Deceiver, he sees why: the demon's gold eyes swirl like wild winds that will yank viewers in and sweep them away, lost in the thrill of overwhelming power.

Rumplestiltskin's gold eyes. Rumplestiltskin's gold-gray skin. Rumplestiltskin's voice. "Come on home, son. Where you belong."

No, Rumple-Gold corrects the thought; not like wild winds; like dirty water swirling down a drain. He rejects the spell. "Regina!" he snaps, but her face remains upturned to her master. "Regina!" Brushing past the Deceiver, he grabs the woman's arms and tries to turn her toward him. "If you go you'll never come back. You'll never see Henry again."

Then the Deceiver makes his first mistake. "Who is Henry? Another born belly-crawler, nothing more."

Regina's lips part and she blinks.

"No one you need concern yourself with, my darling," the Deceiver smiles down at the slave tucked safely under his arm and he fondly brushes a stray lock of hair from her temple.

"Henry loves you. Don't abandon him." Rumple-Gold pulls on her arms, urging her to step away.

The Deceiver throws a fireball at Rumple, who ducks, but his hair on the left side of his face is singed off. "Out of my way, 'Dark One.' Never come between a master and his property, or have you forgotten?" He flicks his fingers and a wind sweeps Rumple into the open jail cell, slams him against the far wall and he crumples to the glittering floor. He sets his hands against the concrete to push himself up, and his hands sting, the dust pricking him like thorns from a rose. His elbows shudder as he raises himself; the dust is draining his strength already. He slips to his knees, then, shaking, climbs to his feet.

The Deceiver has taken Regina in his embrace. He's tilting her chin up, stoking her cheek; he's smiling and murmuring endearments. She's smiling and sighing.

If he kisses her, she'll be lost.

Rumple-Gold leans on the bars of the cage and covers his nose with his handkerchief. His breath steadies as the kerchief filters out the fairy dust, but the dust is all over his hands, his trousers; its power leeches up from the concrete and passes through his shoes to enter his blood stream. His stomach churns and he thinks he's going to be sick all over his Hugo Boss jacket.

But Regina's lips are parting, the Deceiver's lowering his face to hers. The demon's kiss, a blatant mockery of True Love's Kiss, is coming. If Regina regains her powers the town is as good as dead.

Rumple snatches the pebble from his pocket and throws it at Regina's feet. "_Lapidem in_—" A cough interrupts Rumple's chant as the fairy dust clogs his throat. He finishes lamely, "_Lapidem in murum._"

The Deceiver's laugh is the only result. Rumple coughs forcefully to clear his lungs and starts again, but it's pointless. He can't summon a single ounce of magic. His heart clutches as he realizes he's not only powerless—he's helpless.

_No. _There's always help; just ask. "Morning Star!"

The Deceiver tosses him a glance, assuming Rumple's addressing him. "Change your mind, son? Or just jealous?" He pitches his voice and wrinkles his nose in perfect imitation of Rumplestiltskin.

"Arrogant bastard," Rumple-Gold mutters. He shouts louder: "Morning Star!"

The Deceiver cocks his head. "Are you trying to _stop_ me, runt? You can't even raise your hackles, let alone a decent spell."

"Leave us alone. Let Regina go and leave us alone." The voice of Rumplestiltskin the peasant leaks out.

"Or what?"

Rumple reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws his dagger. It's the only weapon left to him. He rushes the Deceiver, but the demon sidesteps him.

"You think you can stop me? You megalomaniac. Instead of selling you to Saer I should've fed you to the hogs." He lifts a hand from Regina's shoulder and elevates a single finger. Rumple rises into the air, his feet dangling. The Deceiver pushes his thumb and forefinger together and Rumple chokes, pulling at his collar. "Where's your courage now, runt? Wait, let's do this the traditional way."

Releasing Regina, the demon plucks the dagger from Rumple's grip.

Rumple manages, "Stop."

The Deceiver examines the dagger thoughtfully. "'Stop'? You still think you can stop me? You and what army?" He plunges the blade into Rumple's chest.

"This one."

The dagger clatters to the concrete. Rumple drops beside it. He inspects his chest: he isn't bleeding. The tapestry, tucked into the jacket lining over his heart, isn't even torn.

The Deceiver sniffs, screws up his face in disgust, glances over his shoulder. "I _thought _I smelled something sickening. Hello, Beretrude."

The little old nun stands a few feet behind the demon, except she doesn't look little, old, or nun-like any more: she's added about six inches and dropped about forty years. She glows in white leather and brandishes a fire-blade sword in her right hand. "Get your magic off him, Lucifer."

"This could be fun." The demon approaches her, flexing his fingers in preparation for a magic fight.

He halts in mid-step when a wall of sword-bearing beings in glowing white leather appears between him and his target. "Damn." He reaches behind him, holding out his hand but keeping his eyes fixed on the messengers. "Come on, Regina."

Regina moves to him, but Rumple-Gold tackles her like a linebacker taking down a quarterback. It's graceless, but it prevents Regina from touching the Deceiver.

The demon grunts in frustration and with a click of his fingers vanishes.

Beretrude assists Rumple and Regina to stand. Before they can speak, she raises a warning finger. "Don't ask about the trial. You know I can't talk about that."

"Course not." The imp brushes fairy dust from his clothes. "I was just going to say thanks."

Beretrude sets one hand on Regina's arm and with the other gestures to her army. "Regina, send us after him. We can get your soul back. It's the perfect time, while he's on the run. Just say the word and we'll chase him all the way to Hell."

"No! Let me go!" Regina scowls. "I want to go with him."

Beretrude gives her a shake. "Why? Why?"

Regina runs a tongue over her parched lips. "He can give me what I need."

"You need your soul," Rumple argues.

"I need my power," she retorts.

Beretrude releases her and waves Rumple away. "No point. She's not ready to listen." She speaks quietly to Regina. "We'll be waiting. When you're ready, just say the word and we'll raid Hell for you."

As Regina and Rumple stare, the wall of messengers vanishes and Beretrude becomes a little old nun again. She straightens her pullover sweater, adjusts the silver cross that hangs from a chain about her neck, and walks stoop-shouldered out of the office, brushing past a wakening Sleepy.

Rumple jerks Regina into the undamaged cell and slams the door. He takes the key off Sleepy and as he thrusts it into the lock, he complains, "You blew it, Regina. You totally blew it. I'd have given anything for an offer like that." He tosses the keys at Sleepy. "Better wake Dopey up."

He digs into his jacket for his cell. "Emma? Sorry to pull you away from your manhunt. There's been a development here at the jail—and that favor you owe me? I'm calling it in."

* * *

The hospital's full security force has been alerted. So has Mother Superior, in her capacity as Estrilda's legal custodian. It's after midnight, so all of the patients are asleep, the visitors and most of the health-care professionals are long gone. The trio of law enforcement officials—the sheriff and her two temporary deputies—attract no public attention as they clamber out of Marco's delivery van and cross the parking lot. In the lobby, the hospital security team falls in with the cops and the group moves forward, past the closed gift shop, past Reception, onto two elevators to the second floor and down the empty corridor to Estrilda's room. Whale and Mother Superior stand on either side of the bed; the patient is propped up and some of the medical equipment has been removed.

The guards and cops take up various positions around the room and one of them locks the door.

As the crowd parts, the two in the middle are left apart: Regina, in her black pantsuit, and Emma, in her jeans and red jacket. Regina's hands are cuffed; Emma's hands are filled, the right with a gun, the left with Regina's hair. "Let's get this over with," Emma growls.

Rumple-Gold emerges from the back of the room where he'd been sitting with Belle. He carries a long metal box to Estrilda and sets it on her lap, slides the cover back. She peers into the box, her face bloodless, her hands shaking as she withdraws the silver comb from her hair. She clutches the comb against her chest and closes her eyes, her lips moving silently. After a long moment she sighs, and the room shudders with her sigh. "It's not working." She opens her hand for him to see the comb.

He closes his hand around hers. A thistle-colored light rises from their joined hands, and he whispers with her the required words. The light around their hands brightens and deepens into amethyst. Her head falls back upon the pillow, color coming into her cheeks, the irises of her eyes shining with an amethyst light. He releases her hand as she draws in a deep, cleansing breath.

She raises her head from her pillows and with her free hand reaches into the box, bringing out a throbbing red lump that she lifts into the air.

Emma pushes Regina forward.

"_Restituere pectus hoc, reparare hac vita_." The red lump glows and vanishes.

Regina gasps, her head thrown back; Emma and Rumple support her to prevent her from falling. She's shaking uncontrollably, her teeth chattering, and Whale rushes to her side to check her pulse. "Bring up that chair," he barks. "Sit her down. Take those handcuffs off. Stand aside." He takes a blood pressure monitor from the table beside the bed and straps the cuff around her arm. He administers some medication. "I need to keep her here overnight," he tells Emma. "Do what you have to do, but I can't let you take her back to the jail tonight."

Emma nods. "We'll set up shifts. Three hours, four of us at a time."

As Regina is rushed off to a nearby room, the guards with their guns following, Mother Superior leans over Estrilda. "Are you all right?"

Estrilda nods and accepts a glass of water from Rumple-Gold.

"Thank you," Rumple says.

Estrilda sips the water and smiles faintly, dropping her head to her pillows. "It'll take some time for her to adjust. Expect crying spells, panic attacks and laughing fits for the next couple of days." She raises her head again to look Rumple in the eye. "But he won't be back." She gives him back the glass and closes her eyes. "No matter how hard she calls and calls." She sounds lonely.

* * *

Rumple-Gold leans on his broom and surveys his domain. He doesn't know how he feels about this. Other than the cash register, three empty glass cases and the bell over the door, and his work table at the back, the pawnshop stands empty. He feels like the Wizard of Oz, depending on a curtain to hide the secret that he has no magic.

A bustle at the back draws his attention and Henry and Happy, both bearing boxes marked "toys," emerge from behind the curtain. "This is the last of it," Happy reports, and the dwarf and the boy carry the boxes out the front door to the van waiting on the street. They're going to the Salvation Army, along with a dozen other boxes, since these toys didn't come from Fairytale Land. Everything else has been given back to the original owners. Given. Gratis.

Rumple-Gold makes a mouth.

An arm slips around his waist and Belle runs her fingers along the scorched left side of his hair. He should cut the right side to balance the hair loss on the left, but then he'd have a crew cut, so he walks around looking like a wannabe punk rocker from the '80s.

She rests her head on his shoulder. "I'm exhausted. Happy, but exhausted."

"No, _he'_s Happy," Rumple quips as the dwarf passes back through to the rear of the shop for one last box. "Or Hank."

Belle swats him playfully. To look at her, one would think she'd always belonged in this world: she's wearing Gap jeans, Nikes and a holey Boston Terriers sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled back with a Scrunchie and her hands and cheeks are smudged. She looks around the shop. "There's an echo in here now."

"Yeah," he replies gloomily.

"It's better this way," she reminds him. "People are hap—are glad to have their stuff back. They're even ha—gladder to have the little bit of magic that's in the objects. As a just-in-case."

"They all got a copy of the instructions, didn't they? So they won't accidentally turn themselves into toads."

"Yeah, and they all know the magic's only good for protective spells." She hugs him. "It's a good thing you've done, my darling."

"Well, don't expect me to make a habit of it."

"So what will you do with this space?"

"It's half yours." He shrugs. "It's meant for selling things, so I suppose we should find something else to sell." He allows himself the use of the word _we_ despite the fact that he doesn't expect to do any selling here. He won't stand beside that cash register again, leaning on the counter, waiting for the bell to make him jump. He won't be here. He clears his throat and glances at Belle. "What about books?"

"Yeah," she says slowly, visualizing it. "But modern. Rare and out-of-print hard copies, of course, but books-on-CD, mp3 players, ereaders. A download station over here. A wi-fi coffee shop in the back."

He shakes his head in amusement. "You've been talking to Emma."

"And Henry. A business has to keep up with the times."

"That it does." How far she's come, he thinks. And how far she will go. He sets the broom aside. "I guess I'd better get out to the van, make that last—"

And then his cell phone rings. He brings the phone from his pocket, shows her the caller number on the display, and their faces fall.

It's over.

* * *

**A/N. Next up: the verdict.**


	39. Chapter 39

Thirty-Nine

An extra layer of fairy dust has been spread throughout the courtroom. If Regina is to attempt an escape or an act of violence, it will be today: she must be rendered weak. But then, so is Rumplestiltskin.

Estrilda was right: with her heart restored, Regina's been up and down the mood scales like a child practicing piano. Rumple-Gold has a box of Kleenex that he pushes over to Regina as soon as the waterworks start, and some aspirin, but that's for himself. He tosses a handful back as Mother Superior addresses Granny: "Madame Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?"

Granny rises. She makes direct eye contact with Regina, which common wisdom would dictate indicates an acquittal; juries don't like to make eye contact with someone they're sending to the slammer. But Rumple knows Granny. Under his perfectly fitted suit, he begins to sweat. "We have, Your Honor."

All across the courtroom, breaths catch.

"_We find the defendant, Regina Mills, guilty of all charges."_

Regina bursts into tears. Rumple-Gold slips an arm about her shoulders and whispers an offer to appeal, but they both know it's pointless. He stands. "Your Honor? The defense wishes to poll the jury."

It's his right; he has to be sure. He had hopes for the three nuns. Surely Beretrude has not voted guilty as a punishment for Regina's rejection of her offer. Surely tender-hearted Nova could not have ignored Estrilda's moving testimony. Surely Red, who holds a secret crush on the gentle psychiatrist, could not have ignored Hopper's scientific proof. Surely. . .

Emma, who's returned to her bailiff duties, runs through the jurors one by one: "Juror Number One, how do you find?"

Granny stands long enough to announce, "Guilty on all counts."

"Juror Number Two, how do you find?"

Red stands. "Guilty on all counts."

And so it goes. Rumple-Gold groans inwardly when even Beretrude echoes the refrain. No one, not even little Nova, hesitates to answer.

Regina gains control over her tears.

"Do you want me to appeal?" he whispers.

She stares at him as though she's just discovered something. She whispers back, "I am guilty."

And so is he.

After Number Six has verified the verdict, Mother Superior thanks them, commenting that the community owes them a debt for this most difficult service. Then she looks down at a stack of typed pages on her desk. As she examines them for several long minutes, the courtroom remains silent.

"I have here," she indicates the pages, "reports from Doctors Whale and Hopper documenting the remarkable change that's come over Regina. Having seen it with my own eyes, I can say for a certainty that Cora was telling the truth when she testified that she held Regina's heart captive. Three days ago, I witnessed the return of that heart. I believe now, Rumplestiltskin, that everything you presented to us was honest and true, and I thank you for that. We can be at peace, knowing that we considered the entire truth before reaching this decision.

"But the fact remains that Regina voluntarily surrendered her free will to the Black Star. She of all people knew the consequences; after all, her own mother had made the same deal. Regina's motive for selling her soul is proof in itself that she understood the consequences: she wanted revenge. She wanted to cause devastation, and she did, to an entire land. Yes, we owe Regina sympathy for all that was taken from her; that she suffered greatly cannot be overlooked. But we must also not overlook her responsibility in this. She was given precious gifts: a kind father to whom she could have turned, an intelligent mind, the capacity to love. Had she turned to these in her time of suffering, she could have found strength, and perhaps, eventually, peace, but she turned, as her mother had, to the Black Star. Regina was not tricked; she knew what she was bargaining away and what she would receive in return.

"We must show mercy for her suffering, but we must not overlook her crimes. We must forgive, but we must answer justice.

"Regina Mills, please rise."

Regina wobbles as she complies; Rumple holds her arm to prevent her falling. Under her Elizabeth Arden makeup, her face is white as new snow.

"Regina Mills, I sentence you to life in prison, where you will receive the medical care you deserve and we will receive the justice we require." Mother Superior bangs her gavel. "Court is dismissed. Bailiff, take the prisoner."

Desperate, Regina throws herself into Rumple-Gold's arms. "Get me out of this, get me out of this! You can do it—use your magic!"

He opens his mouth, but no words come. He shakes his head as Emma pulls Regina away. Raging now, Regina kicks and hisses, and Leroy leaps forward to assist Emma. But Regina's last threat isn't against Emma, or Snow, or even Mother Superior; she swings on her counsel. "If they can do this to me, just think what they'll do to you! Off with his head!" And she's laughing as she's dragged away.

Rumple-Gold sits back down at the defense table. He can't see faces for the blur of people rushing past him. He can't hear voices. He can, however, hear the pounding of his heart in his ears.

He's next.

He rises and follows after Mother Superior as she makes her way through the crowd to the judge's chambers. When he catches up to her, she's removing her black robe and hanging it carefully in a small closet behind the judge's desk. He lifts his hand to rap on the open door, but she must have heard his knees knocking instead, for she glances up and smiles faintly. "Mr. Gold," she greets him, straightening the cross she wears around her neck. "Thank you."

His hand falls to his side. He looks at her in puzzlement.

"For fighting so hard for Regina," she explains, "when no one else would."

"But I failed."

"Did you? Tell me, Mr. Gold, where do you think Regina stands her best chance?"

He admits, "Where she's going." This is his opening. He swallows hard; he will ask her to call Charming back, and anyone else whose counsel she values, and he will call in Belle, and then he will surrender himself to the law, render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. "Reverend Mother, I—"

But she interrupts, her voice deep with sympathy, "Soon enough, Mr. Gold. Monday will be soon enough. Give Belle this time." _She knows._

He nods and walks away.

* * *

He's silent on the drive back home. There's a question in Belle's eyes but she grants him the freedom to not answer it yet, and he's grateful to her. He will face his fate on Monday; right now, he needs something, someplace, someone to cling to.

"Are you hungry?" she asks as they enter the pink house. He shakes his head. "Tea?" She wants to cheer him up, but then she realizes cheer isn't what he needs. She encircles him with her arms and rests her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Rumple. You did everything that could be done."

She means everything that could be done for Regina, and he understands that, but he chooses a different interpretation. "That's what worries me," he admits. "If it was evil, I did it. I can't expect any lighter a sentence than Regina's."

He can see the arguments forming in her mind; he knows them all because he's used them on himself. She's tempted to tempt him, but before she can try—and fall into regret later—he re-stakes his claim. "Every year that I run from paying, this debt grows. Until I pay it, I can never be free."

"Where you go, I will go." She too re-stakes her claim.

He won't disavow her yet of that notion. "Belle, how would you like to go fishing?"

She tilts her head. "I've never been. I think I'd like that just fine."

* * *

Peace.

The cabin is cool and quiet, and she's absolutely delighted with the privacy it offers. Belle sweeps in, not even giving him time to go to the fuse box and turn the electricity on; she pushes the door and the windows wide open, letting in the breeze and the sun. This is how he'll always picture her: opening windows, inviting in the sun. He memorizes every detail; soon, he will be living off his memories for a long, long time.

She sorts through the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, gathering utensils to make tea. When she turns on the tap and water comes out, she's delighted with that too: she explains that when they'd driven up she had assumed the cabin would have no modern conveniences. She turns on the radio—Rumplestiltskin has introduced her to rock 'n' roll while Gold has tried to sell her on opera; she's veered off in her own direction, into country music. She hums and taps her hiking-booted foot as she fills the tea kettle with water.

He carries the suitcases in. They haven't brought much: she doesn't own much yet, and he's always kept a wardrobe here. Just for a moment he hesitates in the living room, still holding those suitcases. If he turns right, he'll wind up in the master bedroom, where his spinning wheel and loom are. If he turns left, he'll wind up in Bae's room.

They are adults and they are in love. . . and in two days he's going to jail. To take comfort in her arms tonight would give him a very precious memory to add to his collection.

But in two days he's going to jail. To take comfort in her arms tonight—to know what it's like to touch her and taste her and feel her breath in his ear and her hands pressing him close—it would make the jail time all that much harder to bear. He turns left, sets her suitcase on the bed.

She's still humming, some song about killing a man just to watch him die. His skin crawls: he remembers the cart driver, the army recruiters, the fairy godmother. He wishes she'd change the radio station. "I'm stuck in Folsom Prison. . . ."

He turns right and carries his suitcase into his bedroom. As he stacks his shirts into a dresser drawer, the mirror above the dresser catches his eye. He's been awfully busy these past three weeks, too busy to fuss over matters of grooming, so it's a shock when he sees his mirror image. In just these three weeks, his hair, especially on the left side where it was singed, has begun to turn white. Not a gradual gray: white.

He's a middle-aged man.

A human. Not an immortal any more. Not ever again. The average life expectancy of the American male is 75.6 years. Rumplestiltskin doesn't know how old he is—or how old Gold supposedly is—but it's sure the hell more than 76 years. He sits down hard on his bed as the tea kettle whistles and Belle is singing a new song, "'For though my life's been good to me, there's still so much to do/So many things my mind has never known.'"

His jacket pocket vibrates. He flips his phone open and greets the caller.

"Gold? Hi, it's Emma. Listen, I, uh, thought you should know. Estrilda lapsed into a coma."

"'I'd like to raise a family, I'd like to sail away/And dance across the mountains on the moon.'"

Regina's mother. . . Bae's mother. . . Rumplestiltskin's ex-wife. Rumple makes a wordless sound; it's all he can manage.

"And talk of poems and prayers and promises/And things that we believe in."

"You okay, Gold?"

"Yeah." But he isn't.

"'How sweet it is to love someone/How right it is to care.'"

"Gold. . . What you said in the courtroom this week. I believe you."

"Thank you, Emma." He hangs up. He stares at the phone a long time, unthinking. Finally he drops the phone on the bed and retreats to his spinning wheel, letting go of the world.

"'How long it's been since yesterday, what about tomorrow/And what about our dreams and all the memories we share?'"

* * *

"You brought it with you."

He blinks and pulls away from the hypnotic spokes of the wheel. Belle is leaning against the door. She comes forward, smiling fondly as she touches the wheel. "Now I feel like I'm home."

"It's been a help over the years," he confesses.

When she asks about the phone call, he tells her about Cora—and then he tells her about Estrilda, a ten-year-old child fearful and ashamed of the things an evil man did to her, a sixteen-year-old bride embarrassed by her crippled husband, a seventeen-year-old wife ashamed of her army deserter husband, an eighteen-year-old mother trading her life for power so she would never have to be afraid again.

And then he admits that for the first time in his three-hundred-year existence, he realizes he will die someday and it scares the hell out of him.

Belle squeezes his hand and listens. Without judging, she listens, and he thanks her for it, and he thanks the One who wrought love from a duchess' bargain with an imp.

* * *

Rumplestiltskin wakes in a sweat. Before he's fully awake he's on his feet, throwing the suitcase onto his bed. He's had it with the legal system, he's had it with Storybrooke, he's had it with—no, that's not the truth, Gold objects, and Gold continues to object to the way Rumple is tossing clothes—all the jeans and leather pants and t-shirts, none of the suits—into the suitcase without even folding them first, without even checking to see which shirts match with which pants—

Without even telling Belle.

And that's what Gold objects to most of all. Rumple is running because he's afraid, and he hasn't asked Belle to come with him because he's afraid she'll say no and he's afraid she'll say yes. Give up your new life before it's even begun, Belle. Give up your new friends, your driving lessons, your book store, the garden you spend your evenings in. Give up any chance of seeing your father again. And oh, yes, by the way, give up your freedom, because aiding and abetting a fugitive is almost as bad as being the fugitive.

He has to leave her behind. He loves her too much to subject her to a lifetime of hiding.

He hears her in the kitchen, puttering around. Early Morning Belle. She's trying to be quiet so she won't wake him.

He keeps wadding up shirts and throwing them in his suitcase. He'll stop at the bank, empty out his sizeable account, leave a note somewhere that the house and the cabin are to be hers. Leave a word of apology to her for chickening out on her again. Someday she'll understand why. Someday, long after she's settled into town, found a husband, maybe Tim, the VP at the bank, or Scott, the shoe store salesman. They're young, they're steady, they'll take good care of her and any children that come along. Three, he thinks; three children, all with blue eyes.

Children that should have been his.

He'll sell his car after he crosses the state line. Running from the law in a '92 Cadillac is just too absurd to contemplate. He'll sell it to a chop shop, give a fake name when he buys a replacement, something fast, something reliable, something nondescript. No Lamborghinis, no Ferraris in Rumplestiltskin's future. He'd better ditch the leather pants too; they'll attract attention. He pulls those out of his suitcases and stuffs them into a drawer.

No Lamborghinis, no leather pants, no children, no Belle, no Bae, and no jail.

He can't abide it, he argues with Gold. The darkness and dampness and cold of that cage the dwarves built. The guards who threw slops at him, who feed him maggots, who whipped him and reviled him. Jail in this world is better, but he knows for a fact that even if his body is kept warm and fed, his mind won't survive a third imprisonment. And a crazy imp with magic is a very dangerous creature. _Emma_ might not survive his imprisonment.

He has to run. It's almost his civic duty.

He hears the oven door creak. A scent drifts in from the kitchen: not coffee, not bacon, not her soon-to-be famous pancakes. . . .

Barefoot, he stands on the threshold between his bedroom and the kitchen.

"Oh, good morning," she chirps. "Sorry if I woke you. Look what I did, from scratch! It's perfect!"

She bumps the over door with her hip, closing it, as she displays the result of her morning's work. "Look, Ru— " she interrupts herself and her voice drops into suspicion. "What are you doing?"

She can see past him through his open bedroom door to the bed, where his suitcase lies. He's twisting a balled-up t-shirt back and forth, back and forth because he doesn't know how to tell her. She's seen what he's doing and she's frightened and ashamed.

And then he sees what she's doing and he's frustrated and ashamed.

For between her oven mitts Belle bears a pan holding a golden-crusted, butter-topped loaf of made-from-scratch bread.

He can feel magic from far away pulling at him. In the back of his head, where the Dark One used to reside, where, when the curse broke, the imp settled in, he thinks he hears Helewise, though that's impossible. It must be just a memory. _"I've been trying so hard to get your attention. We think you work for us now."_

Rumple opens a dresser drawer, grabs the suitcase and turns it upside down, letting the contents fall willy nilly into the drawer. Stick to the plan, Gold instructs him.

"What are you doing?" she repeats.

He tosses the suitcase into the closet and sits down on the edge of the bed. He drops his head into his hands so she can't see his face—and so he can't see hers. It's the only way he can get the words out. "Belle, I was—I'm scared."

She sets the bread down on the dresser and comes to him. "So am I."

"Belle, can we talk about this?"

Her arm slips around his waist. "You can talk to me about anything."

The words make no sense as they leap out of his mouth: leather pants, Lamborghinis, blue-eyed children, Charming's underground prison, Emma's holding cell, 75.6 years. She listens and tries to keep up. He talks until his throat is sore, until his hands ache from the way he's been clenching them, until his heart has resumed a normal beat and his mind has exhausted itself.

And then when the thread of his fear is played out, she reels him back in again, taking him in her arms, lying back with him on his bed, her head resting on his shoulder. They fall quiet, the bread forgotten.

* * *

When he awakens it's nearly noon. She hasn't slept, but she hasn't stirred all this while, not wanting to disturb him. They rise and eat the bread she baked, and then he takes down the fishing rods from the mantel, the one he bought for himself and the one he bought for Bae, long before Emma arrived in Storybrooke and his memory awoke. He'd bought them, and all the toys in the second bedroom, without understanding why.

They walk down to the lake and try to forget.

* * *

On Monday morning, he's up before she is; he's spent the night spinning, and in the dawn he takes a last walk beside the lake to look up at the morning star, and to listen. The voice that answers him reassures him he's on the right path.

He prepares breakfast, the last of the fish they'd caught and the last of the bread she'd baked. She sees past him to his bedroom, where his packed suitcase awaits. Hers, as well, is packed. She's known this moment was coming and as they wash the dishes and tidy the cabin one last time, he broaches the subject. "Sell the house, if you think it's too big. It's awfully drafty in the winter, anyway, and the property taxes are monstrous. But if you can, keep the cabin." He doesn't say why.

She allows him to see her tears. "How soon will they—"

"Right away, I expect. They won't want to take a chance that I might—" he snaps his fingers and vanishes, then reappears, eliciting a laugh from her. He takes the dishtowel from her and kisses her. "My brave Belle, thank you for the gift of this weekend."

"Thank you for teaching me how to fish." But they both know she's referring to so much more.

"What a fool I was, to think castles and gold could give me comfort. If I had a choice now, this is where I'd stay, with you, the rest of my life. But Belle, I have to ask you to forgive me, even if you can't understand, but where I'm going, you can't go. No one can." He cups her shocked face in his hands and hopes fervently that she can find understanding in his eyes. "I'll ask the Reul Ghorm and Charming for a plea bargain—"

"That's only fair," she interrupts. "You're not the same man you were when you hurt all those people. I should think Mother Superior would see that and give you a lesser sentence—"

"No, Belle, I'm not asking for a reduced sentence. I'm asking for exile."


	40. Chapter 40

Forty

In his left hand is Belle's hand. She is still struggling to accept his decision, and every few seconds she glances at him, her mouth half-open, ready to present another convincing argument as to why he should not do what he's said he will. But then he glances back at her, his eyes asking her to surrender the fight, and she closes her mouth again and tightens her grip on his hand.

In his right hand, which rests in his pocket, is the tapestry Rumplestiltskin wove, the threads of which bind his family together with magic and to magic. Through those threads he can feel every memory, both Rumplestiltskin's and Gold's, and the lifelines of Belle and Bae. It's through this tapestry he knows that Bae is alive somewhere; and it's through this tapestry that, regardless of the distance he will travel away from her, he will know that Belle is alive.

Before leaving the cabin this morning, he snipped off a segment of the tapestry. It's now in Belle's shoulder bag. Through it, she will know that he is alive, and perhaps she will worry a little less.

He slips his hand out of his pocket to open the door to the courthouse.

Their heels click on linoleum as they pass through the entrance, down the empty main hall, past the closed doors of the courtroom, around a corner to a small, empty waiting room and through that to the judge's chambers, the door of which stands open. No one is there.

This is not at all how he visualized his surrender would go.

He shuffles his feet a bit, uncertain; glances at a clock, finally states the obvious, "Reverend Mother appears to be late."

"Maybe she forgot?" Belle suggests hopefully.

He shakes his head. "I should look a—" and then his cell phone rings, from Belle's bag; he's given her his keys and wallet too, since he won't need them any more. Puzzled, Belle fishes the phone out and hands it to him. "Hello?"

"Mr. Gold." Mother Superior sounds rushed and tired. "Perhaps you'd be good enough to come to the hospital. Quickly."

* * *

They're too late.

He stands in the open doorway to Estrilda's room. Whale is writing something on a chart; Mother Superior is kneeling in prayer beside the bed. Estrilda, still attached to machines that have been turned off, lies beneath a cheap wool blanket. Her eyes are closed, her hair matted with sweat, her lips slightly parted as though she might manage one more, just one more breath.

He glances at Belle, who waits, pale-faced, a few feet behind him, and beyond her, where nurses and doctors and recovering patients are roaming the hall, moving easily, some of them chattering away about the minutia of their lives, and he wants to yell at them to shut up, don't they know someone just died here. Can't they take one damn minute out of their 75.6 years of living to spare a thought for the dead, even if they didn't like her, even if she did waste most of her life pursuing status and power, even if she did turn innocent people into snails and step on them and stab a mute housekeeper to death and manipulate silly girls into signing contracts relinquishing custody of their babies and maybe it wasn't all her fault, maybe when she was too deep in despair to think clearly an evil being took advantage of her and if they just would have left Bae alone, just let them live their quiet ordinary lives in the dirt-floor cottage, what is there to gain anyway in heaping still more abuse on a crippled spinner and his sheep-herding son, haven't they already paid enough?

"Amen." Mother Superior stumbles a little as she rises from the floor, and Whale takes her arm briefly to steady her. He releases her as soon as she's on her feet, his hand jerking away as if he's had an electrical shock.

"Mr. Gold. Belle." Mother Superior spots them, so it's too late to hide. Rumple-Gold reaches back for Belle's hand and they enter the room together. Belle stops just inside the door, uncertain what he needs from her right now and hesitant to come so close to death.

Whale clips the chart onto the foot of the bed, clicks his ballpoint shut and leaves, giving Rumple a quick glance and Belle a little pat on the arm.

That's it? Rumple-Gold wants to throw something, smash something, because shouldn't the end of a life be marked by something more than the click of a ballpoint pen? His hands clench uselessly.

"She regained consciousness for a few minutes this morning." Mother Superior's voice lacks strength. "She said she was sorry she wouldn't be able to help me with the garden after all. She asked about the trial."

"Did you-?"

"I told her the truth. She asked me to visit Regina in prison. She had a message for you, too." Mother Superior holds out her hand and the baseball-sized mausoleum appears in her palm. "She said, 'Tell Rumplestiltskin I'm giving them back.'"

He takes the wretched thing. "It's okay then?" he asks. It's not what he wants to ask, but a lifetime of being judged by fairies has left an indelible stain on his pride, and he can't humble himself to ask the queen of the fairies what he needs to know. He approaches the bed, picks up Estrilda's hand and studies her face for an answer to his question.

Mother Superior stands absolutely still, her hands folded, watching him.

Estrilda's face reveals nothing. He reads neither serenity nor terror in it, no emotion at all. Frustrated, he asks again, "Is it okay, then?"

Mother Superior waits a long moment before answering. "Her last words were for him."

Rumple-Gold starts to breathe, then the fairy explains, "Her master the Dark Star. She called for him to claim her."

Rumple-Gold curses under his breath. He places Estrilda's hand, the one that still bears Henry's ring, under the blanket. "Tell Regina," he says. "She needs to hear that." When Mother Superior nods, he observes, "There's no one to see to her funeral."

"We'll take care of her," Mother Superior replies.

"I'll help," Belle offers.

He searches Estrilda's face again for something he may have missed before, but he finds no answer. The mausoleum weighs heavy in his hand. He glances at the nun. "Will you come with us? We can finish our business after."

"Of course."

* * *

The Blue Fairy, the Dark One and the duke's daughter approach the well in silent reverence. He peers over the edge but the well is too deep and dark for him to see the waters that run to Lake Nostros. He has to just trust that the well hasn't gone dry. With both hands he holds the collection of stolen hearts over the mouth of the well, keeping it steady, and then he recites the ancient words and the Blue Fairy joins her voice with his: "_Restituere pectus hoc, reparare hac vita_." He releases the mausoleum into the well. He hears no splash.

A swirling yellow cloud rises from the depths into the sky. He follows it with his eyes until sunlight blinds him, and then he has to look at the ground to clear the spots from his vision. When he looks up again, the cloud is gone.

"What will happen now?" Belle wonders.

Rumple-Gold is curious too. "Most of those people probably died a long time ago."

"Most, but not all," Mother Superior says. "Those that still live, the magic will find them."

"Is it too late for the others?" Belle asks.

The nun smiles. "It's never too late." She bows her head to whisper a prayer. When she raises her face again, she sighs. "Thank you, Mr. Gold. And now we can return to the judge's chambers to conduct our business."

* * *

Charming and Emma are already here, seated at the back of the room. Charming rises politely when the nun and her charges enter. Mother Superior heads straight for the closet, removes the black robe from its hanger and slips it on. Charming manages to look both dubious and smug at the same time as he spreads his yellow legal pad open across his lap. Mother Superior uses the intercom to buzz a stenographer in, and when that individual indicates his readiness to take notes, she prompts, "Mr. Gold, you may proceed."

Now that the time has finally come, he finds himself tongue-tied. His blood pounds in his ears. Belle squeezes his hand in encouragement and that little gesture clears his mind. "I wish to plead guilty to. . . " he shakes his head, "crimes innumerable and immeasurable. I was the Dark One for two and a half centuries, during which time I killed, stole, manipulated, corrupted, destroyed property—"

"Stole babies, cheated, lied," Charming adds.

"No, I never harmed a baby, and I always kept my end of the deal," Rumple-Gold snaps. "But I suppose it hardly matters. I've done so much evil that it's beyond counting." He snaps his fingers and a leather-bound book six inches thick appears on the judge's desk. "This is as detailed a list as I can remember, but there are no doubt a great many more offenses I've long since forgotten. And in this world, as Gold, I've wrecked havoc as well. A trial would be pointless. I have even less of an excuse than Regina has. While I was compelled by dark forces to do many of the things I've done, I retained a large measure of my free will." He stares at his hands. "And I know now, I could have extricated myself from the Dark One if I had only listened to better voices. So I've come for one last deal."

"If you think you're going to bargain your way— " Charming blurts, but Mother Superior hushes him. "What is it you want, Mr. Gold?"

"I ask to be exiled."

"So you can rebuild your magic and come back and destroy us?"

"King James, please," Mother Superior urges. "Another outburst and I'll find you in contempt. Where do you wish to be exiled to, Mr. Gold?"

He reads her expression as well as her magic, and he knows she knows already—and she approves. But for the record he answers, "Wonderland."

"Let me get this straight: your plea bargain is life in prison in Wonderland?" Charming's voice drips with disbelief. "This is some sort of con, obviously, Blue. Wonderland's the old world's version of an insane asylum—except you go in sane and come out crazy. No way he'd go there willingly, unless he's already built a trap door there."

The nun shakes her head. "I don't believe this is a trick, Your Majesty. There are only two ways out of Wonderland: a realm jump or death. And for a realm jump to occur, a jumper must open a portal. There are no jumpers in Wonderland."

"So he just cons someone on this side to open a portal and let him out."

"All magic follows inviolable laws," Mother Superior continues. "The primary law of realm jumping is that the same number who enter a portal must come out the portal. No more may exit, or the portal will close and those who attempted to pass through it will be crushed. For two to exit Wonderland, two must have entered the portal from this side."

"For Rumplestiltskin to be released, someone would have to go in with Jefferson and remain behind," Belle surmises glumly. This part she knows already; he confessed it this morning: there will be no escape from Wonderland.

Emma's got it figured out. "Who are you releasing from Wonderland, Gold?"

"Someone who never should have been left behind in the first place," he replies bitterly.

Charming falls silent after that, mulling it over.

Mother Superior has already thought it over and is ready to pronounce sentence. "Rumplestiltskin Gold, for crimes too numerous to count, committed here and in Fairytale Land, I banish you for the remainder of your life to Wonderland. You will leave as soon as Jefferson can escort you. Sheriff Swan, to ensure that the sentence is carried out, you will accompany them."

"Reul Ghorm," Belle blurts, "I don't have any rights in this, I know, but please, allow me to go with them, so I can say goodbye."

Rumple-Gold starts to protest: in truth, he doesn't want Belle to see Wonderland; it will only upset her. But if this is her price for supporting him in this decision, he will pay it.

"No, Belle," the nun replies. "While I sympathize with your plight, I cannot grant your request."

Mother Superior phones Jefferson. A bit of an argument ensues: in his mistaken gratitude for Rumple-Gold's efforts in establishing the custody agreement, he doesn't want to enable the banishment. As the nun and the realm jumper hash it out, the prisoner and his beloved exchange hasty whispers, upon which Charming eavesdrops openly—and which the stenographer records.

He's doing his best to stay clear-headed so that he can remember everything. There's so much Belle needs to know: when the property taxes are due, where to take the car for repairs, how much to pay the cleaning service, what to do when the lock on the back door sticks. He hasn't even taught her how to write a business plan for her new bookstore, and he forgot to clean out the basement of his potions. Now that it's really happening, there's so much that needs to be discussed before he—

But she is a resourceful woman, with a circle of new friends who will help her figure it all out. Without him.

So he pushes the mundane aside and gives his last few minutes to telling her the things that no one else can tell her, the things that really will help her manage without him. He reminds her of the tapestry that binds them and urges her to carry it with her, so that through it she'll know he's all right, and he, her. He urges her to seek Emma's assistance in locating her father; he urges her to forgive the man for all transgressions, past and future. He urges her not to live in the past but to pursue every one of her dreams, with as much bravery as she's always shown, and without guilt, for her happiness will be his happiness. He urges her to reach out and up in love, and to walk confidently in the knowledge that she carries his love no matter where she goes. . . or with whom.

As quickly as he can, for Jefferson is on his way, Rumple-Gold shares with her some of his memories of her, little stories she's probably not aware of, little ways that she endeared herself to him and changed him. As quickly as he can, for Jefferson has been known to break the speeding limit a time or two, he draws from her some of her memories of him, visions that will help to fill an empty night or a lonely morning.

And then there are footfalls in the hallway and Jefferson, hat in hand, stands on the threshold, and Belle slumps in her chair, too overcome to give her beloved a last kiss or watch him leave. He kisses the top of her head and Jefferson turns and he follows the realm jumper and Emma follows him, the little procession moving out to the lobby, where, with Mother Superior witnessing the carrying out of her sentence, the hat is set upon the linoleum and given a spin. The magic responds immediately, forming a green vortex, and Rumple-Gold runs his hand across his eyes to brush away a dampness, and with Jefferson and Emma he jumps.


	41. Chapter 41

Forty-One

Saer used to say, "Sometimes when we are most fixed upon a course, that's when fate steps in and pushes us off the path."

After overcoming fear and selfishness, Rumple-Gold has settled into a tight-jawed, determined acceptance of the rightness of his decision. And so he says nothing when, as they stand in magic's Grand Central Station and face the wall of colorful doors, Jefferson sneers at him. "What the hell are you thinking, 'Stiltskin? Back there you've got a life any man would give his eyeteeth for, including, must I remind you, a gorgeous woman who adores you. Were you afraid they'd lynch you if you didn't turn yourself in? You were Rumplestiltskin, damn it; nobody could touch you! If any of them threatened you with so much as a ticket for jaywalking, you could've turned them into a mosquito and swatted 'em with a newspaper." He glances hastily at Emma. "No disrespect meant, Sheriff."

"Huh?" Fascinated with the portals, she is ignoring his diatribe.

"So anyway," Jefferson returns his attention to Rumple-Gold. "The curse breaks and you remember who you are and the love of your life rises from the dead, and what do you do? 'Oh, please, Blue Fairy, I've been such a bad boy; lock me up in Wonderland.' So I repeat: what the hell are you thinking, 'Stiltskin?"

Rumple-Gold crosses his arms across his chest. "I haven't lost my magic yet, realm hopper. I still could turn you into a mosquito."

Muttering and shaking his head in disbelief, Jefferson approaches the mirrored door.

"How do we get in?" Emma wonders, examining the door. "Where's the knob?"

Jefferson jerks his head toward Rumple-Gold. "He's right behind me." He continues walking, passing right through the mirror, which ripples but doesn't resist him.

"What the—" Emma breathes, but hastens to keep up as Rumple-Gold follows Jefferson through the mirror. "Whoa. . . ." She walks with one hand in front of her, feeling her way along, and the other on the pistol tucked into the back of her belt. When she emerges on the other side, she shudders and brushes her jacket, surprised to find herself unscathed. The men allow her a moment to look around at the tall plants in kaleidoscope colors before they move forward again, passing and ignoring the hookah-smoking caterpillar. Emma pauses to gape at it, her hand still poised to grab her gun, until Jefferson seizes her elbow. "Come on, let's get this over with and get back to civilization. We got kids to pick up from school this afternoon." He scowls at the gun. "That won't do you any good here."

"I don't care. It makes me feel better."

He shrugs. "Whatever floats your boat." Rumple-Gold is already twenty paces ahead. Jefferson shakes his head again. "I never saw a man so eager to go to jail. He's walking right into bedlam, do you know that? Right into the open maw of madness."

"He said something about taking somebody's place. Somebody who shouldn't have been left behind. Do you know what he's talking about?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't make him any less crazy."

"What is this place?" Emma stoops to peer a rose that seems to be winking at her, but Jefferson yanks her back.

"We're not here for the grand tour, sister. Don't touch anything, don't even get close to anything; it's all dangerous." He picks up the pace to catch up to the prisoner, and Emma hurries to keep up with him. "I hate Wonderland," he mutters.

Rumple-Gold suddenly snaps his fingers—but to release a thought, not magic. "Inspection! Emma, when you get back, please tell Belle the state inspection's due on the car. I don't want you to have to give her a ticket."

"We'll look out for her. Me and—my mom," Emma smiles ruefully.

"You know, you could've waited another month or three to turn yourself in," Jefferson grumbles. "You could've taken care of all that stuff for her. That's what the thoughtful boyfriend-convict would do."

"No, I couldn't have," Rumple-Gold snaps. "I may be too late already."

They walk on in silence for another half-hour. Emma notices that tulips blow kisses at her, but daffodils turn their backs on her. The birds in the sky are flying backwards and the sun is rising in the west. She moves her pistol to the front, just in case.

"Where are the queen's guards?" Jefferson wonders. "We're almost at the throne; we should've been surrounded by now."

They round the bend to find a two-legged piccolo hopping up and down in their path. The piccolo bows low, begins to play a bouncy tune, then spins and skips alongside them as they proceed to the royal plaza. "We've been welcomed," Rumple-Gold says, puzzled.

"Where are the guards?" Jefferson frets again.

The path takes them up a hill. As they ascend, they can't see what's on the other side, but they can hear what waits for them: calliope music, a barker shouting, "Peanuts! Get your peanuts right here!" and. . . children laughing.

Rumple-Gold stops in his tracks. "My gods."

A rainbow rises from just beyond the hill and stretches itself across the sky. A hot-air balloon carrying waving children hovers overhead as the travelers crest the hill. As they come down the hill, kite-fliers, stilt-walkers and roller-skaters dance around them. One of the skaters pauses long enough to present Jefferson with an orange snow-cone before she kisses his cheek and skates off.

They pass a merry-go-round and a petting zoo filled with parents and children. They enter the plaza to be greeted by more two-legged musical instruments, bowing and skipping as they play along in tune with the calliope music.

"You lied to us, Gold. You made out like this place was a torture chamber," Emma gripes, but when she studies the prisoner's face she sees he's as bewildered as she is.

"Something's not right here," Jefferson scowls. "It's. . . changed."

In the center of the plaza, seated on the velvet-and-gold throne, with only animated musical instruments for courtiers, is Wonderland's ruler, dreamily working a Saxony wheel, spinning wool into—well, they aren't sure what, until a child on a skateboard clatters up to the throne, and the spinner interrupts the work long enough to pull a handful of fluff off the spindle, set it onto a paper cone and present it to the child, who giggles and takes a bite.

"Cotton candy," Jefferson surmises.

The spinner spies them then, looks up and smiles.

Emma blinks and cocks her head. "Gold?!" She glances to her right to make sure her prisoner is still there; he stands quietly, one hand resting in the pocket of his denim jacket. She returns her attention to the spinner, who's stepping down from the platform and approaching them. "What the hell?" It's Gold all right, walking toward them, right down to those big brown puppy dog eyes and the silk tie and Italian leather shoes.

"We don't use that word here, dearie," Gold cautions. "We don't want to attract demons. Welcome, Emma." He offers her his hand, and as she shakes it, still stunned, she notices he's wearing that same ring he always wore in Storybrooke—the one with the big crystal, which she always suspected was a secret compartment containing some sort of poison.

He shakes hands next with the realm jumper. "Jefferson. Good morning."

And finally he offers his hand in greeting to Rumple-Gold. "I've been waiting all your life for this moment," he says softly. As soon as their hands connect, Gold disappears and a woman in white silk and gossamer stands in his place, gripping Rumple-Gold's hand with both of her own. Tears glisten in her blue-green-brown eyes. "I never doubted you."

"I came to fix my mistakes." Rumple-Gold's eyes are locked on hers, but a frown creases his forehead. "I don't understand. . . "

"Me neither," Emma echoes.

"What's with the carnival?" Jefferson interrupts. "Where's the flamingo croquet and 'off with your head' and all that?"

"This is what Wonderland was meant to be," Helewise explains. "Before, you know, _that_ one," she points meaningfully at the ground, "got a hold of it and made it his loony-bin-away-from-home. Since I was here anyway, my Master asked me to restore Wonderland."

It's Emma's turn to frown. She wheels on Rumple-Gold, but before she can accuse him of trickery, Helewise breaks in. "No, Emma, he didn't know. He thought he was walking into a madhouse, because that's how it was when he left here."

Rumple-Gold recovers sufficiently to remember his manners. "Sheriff Swan, this is Helewise. She's a messenger for the True Morning Star. It's because of her sacrifice that we were able to take Cora to Storybrooke."

"She's the one who stayed behind," Emma understands now. "Three of us came in; only three of us can go out. You came here so she could leave with us."

"She was paying the price that I should have paid." He squares his shoulders, then looks down at the dancing piccolo. "I came to serve my sentence, but . . . ."

"This isn't the prison you expected, is it?" Helewise smiles. "No, it isn't where the Master wants you. You must fulfill all that the law requires, but He wants to make use of you while you serve your sentence. Your work is not here." She squeezes his arm. "The offer was enough."

"Where does He want me?"

Helewise throws her arms around him. "That's the question we've been waiting for! Exactly the question. I'm proud of you, Rumplestiltskin, and He wants you to know He's well pleased. We are to go back to Storybrooke, and you'll serve your sentence there, under the watchful eye of Sheriff Swan, myself and one other messenger."

Jefferson objects, "Four can't go back through the portal. The laws of magic—"

She interrupts, "You are right to respect the laws of magic, as all practitioners should. But the Creator of All Magic is not limited by those laws. So if my replacement is ready?" She glances down at the dancing piccolo.

In a puff of smoke the little instrument becomes a red-haired young man who's now wearing the same suit Helewise wore a few minutes ago, when she was Gold. He adjusts the tie, brushes a speck of dust from his shoe, and spreads his hands. "Ready for inspection, Helewise."

She nods her approval. "You look just fine, Thurston." She claps her hands and the calliope music stops; a walking trumpet plays a fanfare. She bows, encouraging the humans to do the same. "Lady and gentlemen, may I present His Majesty, the new King of Wonderland." When she rises, she gives Thurston, who now wears a crown that somehow, Rumple-Gold thinks, goes very nicely with Hugo Boss, a playful punch in the arm. "Enjoy your vacation, tiger!"

Thurston rubs his hands together gleefully. "Thanks, Helewise!" He runs down the aisle to join the kids at the merry-go-round.

"All right, let's travel," Helewise announces. She tosses her hands in the air and the world spins. As a whirlwind of magic sweeps them away, Jefferson speculates, "Maybe I'll bring Grace here sometime."


	42. Chapter 42

Forty-Two

When the smoke clears, literally, he's standing in Holding Cell A, Estrilda's old home, in the Storybrooke Sheriff's Office. Regina is reclining in an arm chair in Cell B. She's drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair and smirking like a cat that is about to devour a canary. "Welcome home, Rumple." She emphasizes _home_. "So I heard what you did. I guess your little jailbreak backfired, huh?"

He ignores her, scanning the office instead. Jefferson is nowhere to be found, but Helewise and Emma are in the latter's office, with Mother Superior; the ladies are drinking coffee (or perhaps tea; he can't smell it because of the fairy dust clogging his nasal passages). Mother Superior keeps glancing out at him, her expression changing rapidly from alarm to amazement to—now she's the one looking like a canary-swallowing cat.

The ladies finish their conversation and their beverage, then stroll out to the cells. "Mr. Gold," Mother Superior nods a greeting. "It seems an amendment to your sentence is necessary. You'll be staying in Storybrooke after all. I assume you accept this change and won't give us any trouble over it?"

He's looking at Helewise, so it's an honest answer he gives, "I welcome the change."

"Well, these cells were never meant for long-term use," Emma comments. "Leroy and the guys have been building a proper cell for Regina, so we phoned in a request that they double up on their work. It's going to be a couple of weeks, though, so you're both stuck here for the time being. You'll be under guard 24/7. As a former government official, Madame Mayor, I'm sure you can appreciate what that's costing the taxpayers."

"I'd be happy to save the citizens half that money," Regina smiles sweetly. "Just turn me loose."

Emma rolls her eyes before turning to Helewise. "Well, you have my number. I'll see you at midnight. Ruby will be by at noon to deliver lunch. If either one of these jokers gives you a hard time, you have my permission to knock heads." She proceeds to issue further instructions to the new guard.

During this exchange, Mother Superior has been studying Rumple-Gold closely. He studies her right back; for the first time, he notices the slump in her shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes. As much as he's always hated fairies—and suspects he always will—he finds himself almost feeling sorry for her. It's been a tremendous responsibility, caring for the spiritual needs of this community in shock at the same time she's overseen a trial like no other in the history of this world and the old one. He tries to offer her a supportive smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Things'll get easier now," he assures her in a quiet voice. "You have tremendous help." He tilts his head in Helewise's direction.

She nods. "I have a feeling, Mr. Gold, that you may be some help too." She sighs tiredly. "I should like to talk to you at length sometime about these last few weeks. It seems you are no longer the man who raged at me in the wilderness."

He thinks about this moment. "I'm still that man; I can't let myself forget that."

She sets her hands on the bars of the cell and leans toward him, and for the first time ever he sees puzzlement in her expression. In a whisper she asks, "Was it her—was it the messenger who changed you?"

"Only I can change me. The Dark One lived in me, and sometimes he controlled me," Rumple-Gold admits, "but only a part of my soul belongs to the Deceiver. All these years, the will has been mine, and so has the responsibility."

"Why then—I believe you are sincere. I can see no ulterior motive for you to turn yourself in. Why did you do it? Why did you. . . accept the responsibility?"

"I accepted the love."

"Blue?" Emma calls. "We need to get going. We're late." She can't resist a last dig at Regina. "Council meeting. We're having a mayoral election next month."

"Oh yeah? Don't tell me that milkmaid David Nolan is running," Regina sneers, but the sheriff and the nun walk away. The ex-mayor flops onto her cot and occupies herself with a magazine.

Helewise brings Rumple-Gold a cup of coffee. "Feeling a little discombobulated?" At his nod, she reassures him, "It will all make sense soon, once you see the big picture. The Master has always had a plan for you, Rumplestiltskin, since the moment you took your first red-faced breath in this world, and now and unto death and after." She pauses to make certain she has his full attention. "Hear me, Rumplestiltskin: He has a plan for you now and unto death and after."

He rolls her words around in his mind and on his tongue. "'Unto death and after.'" He sits down on his cot to think about this. "I have a purpose then."

"And work to do," she agrees. With a meaningful glance at the _Cosmo_-reading Regina, she emphasizes, "Lots of work."

"Here and after I die."

"And during. Even your dying will be of service." Then she realizes what she's said and adds hastily, "But not for quite some time yet. You have quite some time left in this life. Lots of work to do."

"Work to do after I die." His face brightens. "That means there are lives beyond this one."

Helewise lowers her voice. "That tapestry you wove—you thought it was a talisman, but the Master saw it as a prayer. A request to bind your family together through love and memory. Bae and Belle and Gold and Rumplestiltskin. And the Master wants you to know the answer to your prayer is yes. Bae's and Belle's love for you, and yours for them will live always, through this life and beyond. And the love you doubted the most, it too will live: through the Master you will love yourself: the unwanted orphan, the lame husband, the army deserter, the Dark One."

He's not even aware of when it happens, but he suddenly realizes she's there in his cell, sitting beside him on the cot, holding his hand. "The Master sees you not as any of those things, Rumplestiltskin. He sees you as He means for you to be: the spinner. Through your hands on the wheel He will do His work, and it will be good. For the ones He intends for you to serve, for your family, for yourself."

"So what's my first assignment?"

"No surprise," Helewise tilts her head in Regina's direction. "We're encouraging her to ask for her soul back. It may seem hard to believe right now, but the Master has work for her to do too."

"At this point, I can believe it."

"The talking end of it is my partner's responsibility. He'll arrive tomorrow morning."

"What do you want me to do?"

"We want to make an example of you." The clock in the library tower chimes twelve times. "Your job starts at 3:15. Which, coincidentally, happens to be the visiting hour."

At noon Ruby in her red beret breezes in, carrying a thermal bag. Technically she's not a visitor, but as she unpacks the lunches—meatloaf, baked potato, green beans and rolls—she chatters with Rumple-Gold, but pointedly ignores Regina. In the past, she never had much to say to Gold, though plenty to say _about _him, to others; but since befriending Belle, she's begun to soften her opinion. As word of his morning exploits spread like butter on hot pancakes, he's become an object of curiosity, so she's especially eager to add fresh information to the public knowledgebase about the Evil Landlord who willing walked into Hell—okay, Wonderland—to rescue a stranger.

Helewise permits a little conversation. It's good for the Plan.

"So Rumplestiltskin, is it true what they're saying?" Ruby stands back as Helewise unlocks Regina's cell. "About you? You really turned yourself in? Emma didn't even come after you?" As Helewise watches Regina, who, as ordered, stands against the far wall, well out of reach, Ruby leaves on the cot a Styrofoam container and a package of plastic dinnerware. "You pled guilty—no plea bargain or anything?"

Ruby backs out of the cell and Helewise locks it. Regina opens the Styrofoam container and sniffs delicately at the food. "Meatloaf!" she grumbles. "Tell Granny I want a steak, medium rare."

"You're eating on the public dime, Regina," Helewise reminds her. "You're going to get the dinner special. Unless you want to pay for it yourself?"

"I would do exactly that, if Mayor Pro Tem Nolan hadn't frozen my assets." Regina drops onto the cot and takes the container onto her lap, picking at the meatloaf. "What right has he, anyway?" And she starts to sob.

"It's the heart thing," Ruby explains to Helewise. "See, she just got her heart back a few days ago and she's not used to it yet. She does this every day."

Helewise unlocks Cell A and Rumple-Gold stands against the back wall. Carrying his meal in, Ruby picks up her line of questioning. "So as I was saying. Is it true? And then you rescued someone from Wonderland?"

"Me," Helewise says.

"Oh yeah? Hey, when you get off shift, come by Granny's. Three blocks straight down on Moncton. We give a complimentary dinner for all new Storybrooke residents. And I'd love to hear your story." As with Regina, Ruby leaves the container and plastic ware on the cot and backs out of the cell.

"How many complimentary dinners have you given out?" Helewise wonders.

"Well, you'll be the first." As the door is safely relocked, Ruby leans against it. "You didn't answer my question, Rumplestiltskin."

"Which one?" he asks, sitting on the cot. Like Regina, he picks at the food.

"You turned yourself in?"

"Yes." When he tries to cut the meatloaf with the plastic knife, he slices through the Styrofoam instead. Clearly, this new presentation for his meals will take some getting used to.

"Why?" She gapes at him. "I mean, you must've known you'd get sentenced to life. Why didn't you run?"

He pretends to be absorbed in the meatloaf, so Ruby guesses, "Was it because of Belle? She wouldn't go on the lam with you, so you turned yourself in so you could stay here instead of getting sent off to Augusta? Did you turn yourself in for love?" She sighs.

"Yes, for love."

"No, wait, you asked to be imprisoned in Wonderland, didn't you, so you would've been separated from her. I don't get it. Why did you turn yourself in?"

"For love, Ruby." He watches her eyes light up. She doesn't understand what he's talking about, but it'll make a good story anyway; by this evening, everyone in town will have heard his "for love" comment. From the corner of his eye, he sees Helewise grin; it's never a bad thing when a town talks about love.

He takes a few bites of the potato and closes the Styrofoam container. Ruby's face falls. "What's wrong? You usually like Granny's cooking—unlike some of the snobs around here."

He shrugs. "Nothing against the cooking; it's as good as always. Fairy dust makes me nauseous."

"Oh. Well, when I deliver supper I'll bring some Pepto Bismol." Ruby gathers the barely-eaten meals, drops them in her thermal bag and waves goodbye.

At two-thirty he awakens to the scent of familiar perfume. He sits up, rubs his face, looks around but can't see her; then he hears Helewise's voice, coming from the hallway. "Sorry, but the visiting hour doesn't start for thirty minutes. I've got to follow the rules. You're welcome to wait here if you like. I'll bring you a chair." The messenger-turned-security-guard comes to the deputy's desk, withdraws a chair and rolls it out to the hallway. She's grinning as she does this, and with a wink over her shoulder to Rumple-Gold she says, loudly, for his sake, "My name is Helewise, by the way. You'll be seeing a lot of me, I suppose. You're Rumplestiltskin's first visitor, Ms. French."

He jumps to his feet, straightens his wrinkled shirt and runs his hands through his hair. It's the best he can do in the absence of a comb. He grabs the bars and cranes his neck in hopes of catching a glimpse.

Helewise positions the deputy's chair at the threshold between the hall and the office. "The hallway's so drafty. Let's move your chair a little farther in, shall we."

"Belle." He can see her now. She's seated herself on the chair. She fidgets but smiles and gives him a little wave. She wears a robin's egg blue blouse that emphasizes the blue in her eyes, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. The tension drains from his body: she is safe. She is well. And she is here.

"I have some paperwork to do," Helewise says. "I'll be in the sheriff's office. Just so you know, I'll be monitoring you to make sure you comply with the rules. I can see you both from there." She pokes a finger in her ear. "Though my hearing isn't quite what it used to be." She retreats to Emma's desk, shooting Rumple-Gold a last warning look.

Belle leans forward in her chair. "Are you all right, my love?"

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Are you?" His heart's in his throat: she called him _my love_. She still loves him.

Regina watches with great amusement. "Well, isn't this cozy. 'My love.' 'Sweetheart.' Yech."

"What's happening? Ruby called me a couple of hours ago and said you were here."

He describes the events of the trip to Wonderland, as matter-of-factly as he can, trying not to alarm her when he explains who Helewise really is and why she's here. Even from yards away, he can see the shiver go up her spine when she realizes just how high the stakes have risen, that a messenger of the Source of All Magic has been sent. He points out to her that under the scrutiny of such a force, he dare not fall prey to dark impulses again. "The monster may not have been slain, but he's securely caged," Rumple-Gold concludes. "I'm learning how to be a man again."

Regina makes a gagging sound. When they glance at her, she sticks her tongue out at them. Yet he sees something in her eyes that tells him otherwise. . . that tells him she's listening, and a seed of longing has taken root in her damaged but renewed heart.

"It's three o'clock." Helewise emerges from Emma's office. She leads Belle to Cell A and rolls up the chair so Belle can be seated. "No magic from you, young lady. And no touching," she warns. "No physical conduct may be permitted between prisoners and visitors." She folds her arms as though she intends to stand over them as they talk, but then she turns her head and scowls. "Oh, my, look at that dust bunny under the sheriff's desk. We can't have that. I'd better find a broom." She wanders into the hallway.

Belle and Rumple-Gold rush to each other, as close as they can get with iron bars pushing them apart. They clasp hands and whisper, each assuring the other that this will be all right; they can make this work. He twists to the left, she to the right and they manage to kiss. What the kiss lacks in physicality it makes up for in emotion. Regina throws a wadded up paper napkin at them, but it lands harmlessly on his cot and they ignore her. They have only a few moments; they will waste none on her.

He cups Belle's face in his hands and peers into her eyes as though it's been years since he last saw her. So much has happened since this morning, so much has shifted in him that it may as well have been years. They will discuss it all, later, but for now he's desperate to say again what he most needs for her to hear: "I love you, I love you, now and always, my darling Belle."

She pledges her love too: "Where you go, I go, now and always. I love you, Rumplestiltskin."

Helewise returns with a broom and chases after that invisible dust bunny. They draw apart, Belle sitting down on the rolling chair, but they continue to hold hands. With a deep sigh she reaches into her bag. "I brought you something. I thought you might get bored, so. . ." She shrugs.

"You'll have to show it to Helewise first."

She smiles a little. "Rules."

"All that the law requires," he says softly.

She tells him about her day, spent in fear for him, and in loneliness. "But it's all right now," she states firmly. "We're going to be all right." Believing will make it so.

He knows so. After all, there's a messenger in the next room, on her knees, poking a broom under Emma's desk, proof of the True Morning Star's unfailing love, and there's Belle, her warm hand in his, proof of her unfailing love.


	43. Chapter 43

Forty-Three

**A/N. It's going to get a little sad again, but it'll all be worth it; I promise. Rumple and Belle have a houseful of happiness waiting over the next hill.**

* * *

At 3:10 Helewise declares victory over the dust bunny. As she's passing by Cell A to recloset the broom, Belle calls her over and shows her the gifts she's brought, asking permission to offer them to Rumple-Gold.

Helewise inspects the gifts. "I suppose some could argue this could be used as a weapon, but anyone who would think Rumplestiltskin would so demean a spindle as to use it as a weapon doesn't know Rumple." She returns the gifts to Belle, who presents them to Rumple-Gold.

She's given him a top whorl drop spindle, a box containing rabbit angora roving and a jar of hand cream. "The clerk at the crafts store picked all this out for me," she admits. "The rabbits are raised locally."

He rubs his fingertips across the fur. Ah, what he could have done with the likes of this, back when he was selling his wares to Flatland nobles. It's been many, many years since he handled such slippery stuff; he will have to proceed carefully. The project will require close concentration, a most welcome diversion. "Thank you, Belle. It's perfect." The fur is as soft as Belle's hair.

Regina catches sight of the hand cream and falls back on her cot, giggling uncontrollably. "Did you forget to pack the cold cream, Belle? The hair curlers?" She's laughing so hard her feet kick the air. No one pays attention, so her giggle fit ends abruptly.

* * *

At 3:15 Snow and Henry arrive. They were walking home from school together, Snow explains, and just decided to drop in. "Emma went home about ten this morning, to get some sleep," Helewise says, and Snow admits it's not Emma they've come to see.

Regina comes to her feet. "Henry!"

The boy glances at her but doesn't answer. He remains safely apart from her, cognizant of Emma's warning about avoiding Regina's touch.

She tries again, indignation in her voice. "Henry!"

Pointedly, Henry shifts to Snow's left side—the side farthest from Regina.

Regina drops into her arm chair and stares at the boy, but doesn't speak again.

There's an odd look on Snow's face, one that says she's struggling to recall something that just slipped her mind, as she peers at Rumplestiltskin, sitting there behind bars with some kind of simple toy in his hands. "We just. . . ." she starts and stops. "Just thought we should see how you're doing."

Rumple-Gold doesn't look up from his spindle; he assumes she's asking after Belle or Helewise. Then Snow prods, "Rumplestiltskin?"

He raises his eyes to hers and finds kindness there. For a moment he doesn't see the woman; he sees a little girl in an oversized dress, splashing around in a reflecting pool on the night of her father's wedding—to the woman in Cell B. As he watches her, he thinks he detects a tiny flash of remembrance: has his magic, despite the fairy dust, touched her and called the same memory forth in her?

Henry breaks the moment. "Hey, Mr. Gold. What's that thing? It looks like one of those ball-and-cup games."

"It's called a hand-spindle, Henry. It's used to turn this," he shows the boy the roving, "into thread, so the thread can be made into cloth."

"Why?"

"Well, in the old days, this is how clothes were made."

"Why don't you just buy your clothes at the store?"

"You like to assemble model cars, right?"

"Yeah."

"Why don't you just buy a toy car at the store?"

The boy shrugs. "Well, I do, but I also like to make cars the way I want them to be. Anyway, it's fun."

"There you go."

"Show me how to do it sometime?"

"Sure." Maybe there's a benefit to being stuck behind bars: a prisoner has plenty of time to spend on other people, if he's allowed to.

"Is there anything you need, Rumplestiltskin?" Snow asks. "Clothes? Blankets?"

"Thank you, Snow. Now that you mention it: Belle, would you bring me some clothes from home?"

Home. It's how he reminds her—not that she needs it—that she's family to him. "Of course. Suits or leather trousers?"

He smiles. "Just some jeans and t-shirts. And a comb and a toothbrush."

"Sorry, everyone," Helewise interrupts. "Visiting hour's over. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here." She winks at Snow. "I've always wanted to say that. You can come back tomorrow, same time." She raises a warning finger at Belle. "Remember, no touching the prisoner." She turns her back on Belle to shake hands with Henry, and Belle and Rumple-Gold sneak in one quick kiss. Not a last kiss, no, only a good-night kiss.

When the visitors have gone, Helewise retreats to Emma's office, Rumple-Gold loses himself in his spinning, and Regina licks her thumb and flips through one of her magazines. The room is so quiet, he can hear the pages turning.

After a long time, Regina remarks, "You're a lucky son-of-a-bitch, Rumple." She sighs and throws her magazine on the floor. "One damn lucky son-of-a-bitch."

* * *

In the morning, the Bread Man arrives, the curly-haired guy who sat in on the trial. He introduces himself as Walderan. When Regina asks if that's his first or last name, he smiles wanly and says, "Yes." He makes Regina laugh, so she tries to provoke him. When she can't raise his hackles, she gives up and allows him to amuse her. His attention falls on the _People_ magazine in her lap, and with a glance at the cover, he's off and running, dishing the dirt about celebrities; to hear him, one would think he lived next door to Brangelina. Regina is fascinated: actors are America's royalty.

Spinning quietly, waiting patiently for three o'clock, Rumple-Gold half-dozes, half-listens. Walderan's gossip is peppered with details about celebrities' children and parents. Every so often, somehow, Walderan manages to slip in the name Henry. Gold is amazed at how he does it. By the end of the day, he's got Regina convinced he's on her side. By the end of the week, he's got Regina wrapped around his little finger. The guy's slick and sneaky, a dude after Gold's own heart.

Breakfast and lunch are delivered, right on schedule, but Rumple-Gold's nausea persists, despite Ruby's gift of Pepto Bismol. He develops a headache as well, a consequence, he figures, of not eating, but the way his stomach cramps as soon as he puts anything solid into it, he doesn't press the issue. Ruby brings him aspirin and orange juice.

* * *

On the third day, a new guard arrives. He's in his early twenties, slight of build, on the higher end of the short side. His hair is straight, longish and black; his dark brown eyes are puppy-dog large; his face is diamond-shaped, with a narrow chin and broad cheekbones. When he stretches his hand through the bars to shake hands, Rumple-Gold sniffs, expecting the scent of fresh-baked bread. Instead he gets the scent of soap and toothpaste.

Stranger still, the man's touch carries no magic. Not a single solitary particle of it. Clearly, he's from out of town. "I'm Bertie."

"Hello," Rumple-Gold accepts the handshake. "I'm Rumplestiltskin." Except when I'm Gold, he's tempted to add. But that would be too complicated to explain.

"So," Bertie perches on the edge of the deputy's desk. "Anybody up for a game of checkers?"

He's an open-hearted, gregarious youngster, and Gold is a master in the art of social engineering, so by the end of Bertie's shift Gold knows all about him. When Belle arrives for the visiting hour, she shakes hands with him, then remarks to Rumple-Gold, "A cute guy."

Regina snorts in disagreement. "He looks like Gold. A much _younger_ Gold. And not as scrawny."

At least, she doesn't say _puny_.

* * *

Belle visits every day, often sneaking in early and waiting "in the hall," as before, until 3 o'clock. She brings his clothes, his grooming supplies, books. She brings cotton, wool and silk and takes away the yarn he makes, storing it in the dresser drawer where his t-shirts used to be.

Henry visits most days. He quickly loses interest in spinning, so sometimes he brings his model cars and works on them while Rumple-Gold spins and they talk. Sometimes he brings his homework; he asks for help with history. Rumple-Gold jumps on this opportunity for something else to fill his time: in the mornings he reads books about the American Revolution, industrialization, the Civil War, so when Henry arrives, he's ready with detailed answers.

Rumple-Gold's stomach troubles continue to plague him. He can handle soup, so Ruby brings it by the bucketful, and occasionally a little bread, but anything heavier comes back up. He's constantly embarrassed by having to ask to be rushed to the restroom, and once while Snow is visiting, he doesn't ask in time and humiliates himself, regurgitating just inches from her shoes. His guards watch him carefully.

School lets out for summer and Rumple-Gold worries that Henry won't come any more, and the spinner realizes how much the boy's visits have come to mean to him. But Henry shows up at three most days, and they play with their toys and talk. At first it doesn't matter about what, but eventually, as an old man will, Rumple-Gold wanders into stories. He presents them as fables and myths, but there's a thread of autobiography in each tale, although never a character identifiable as Rumplestiltskin. He doesn't know why he's driven to reveal so much of himself through these stories. He wonders if Henry will catch on; he know Belle has, but she says nothing, just smiles her wise little smile as she listens to the stories, and she knits, or tries to; Ma Hubbard has been teaching her. It seems a natural complement to Rumple's spinning.

During these visits, Regina seethes. Sometimes she tries to butt in, but no one except Walderan shows much interest in her. Her defenses and envy up, Regina begins to depend upon Waldo.

One day Henry brings Grace with him. It's a hot day, Henry complains, too hot to play baseball, so Grace wants to hear a story instead. Grace and Henry come again the next day for a fresh story, and the day after; sometimes she talks about her two fathers and her mother. Through her casual conversation, Rumple-Gold learns the arrangement has hit some bumps but the two households are managing to smooth their problems out.

* * *

Rumple-Gold is visited by Dr. Whale, who finds no physical cause for the prisoner's stomach distress. Dr. Hopper "drops by just to say hello" and ends up staying a full hour. They talk in Emma's office, to afford a measure of privacy, away from Regina. Hopper starts "dropping in" rather regularly after that, eventually dropping the guise altogether and confessing that his visits are professional in nature.

Dark circles develop under Belle's sweet eyes. She cajoles, teases, begs, bargains, but he assures her he's doing his best to control his rebellious stomach. Sometimes he succeeds. More often, he fails.

Regina claims he's faking it. It's an elaborate escape plot.

* * *

Another week passes and the dwarves finally finish their prison construction. The prisoners are to be moved today. Regina is taken first, in the same manner in which Emma had delivered her to Estrilda's hospital room, so long ago. When they return, the guards celebrate their achievement: Regina, sufficiently cowed, caused no trouble during or after her journey.

Rumple's move is delayed for a day, however; Whale orders overnight hospitalization so that tests can be run. He wants to rule out "various possibilities," he says vaguely. Once he's been stripped of decent clothing and forced into a back-opened pea-green gown, Rumple-Gold shivers and swears it's not the nausea that will kill him, it's the cold, and all the needles the nurses are puncturing him with.

"How'd you get that?" Whale points his pen at Rumple's deformed knee and bends down to examine it.

Rumple-Gold shrugs. "Born that way. But the magic healed me."

Whale nods. "Fascinating. I remember you walked with a cane, before the curse broke. Does it bother you any more?"

"No."

Whale scowls. He prods the knee, makes some notes on a clipboard. "OK, try to get some rest." He leaves.

Rumple-Gold sits propped up in the elevated bed, his expression black; but it's a brave front he's putting up, for Belle's sake. She isn't allowed in the examination rooms they wheel him to, or even in the semi-private (a term he challenges: a thing is either private or it's not) room they leave him in, when they've tired of poking him.

It's not hospital policy that forbids her. It's the law. So she waits in the lime-green waiting room, and Whale pops around occasionally to deliver updates.

Helewise is on guard duty in the not-private room, and she's brought distractions: a book from Bertie, a handmade card from Henry, a rose from Belle, a fruit basket from Hopper (with a note: "Hint, hint!"). Her own gift is a radio. He skews an eyebrow at this; it reminds him of his gift to Estrilda when she was in this very room, ages ago. . . dying of cancer.

Alone with her, Rumple-Gold dares to ask what's on his mind. "Do I have cancer?"

"No," she answers, so firmly all doubt flees from his mind. "What you do have, though it's a bit shaky right now, is faith. Wait and see, Rumplestiltskin; good is coming."

They talk a while about inconsequential things and he turns the radio on low, symphony music. The hospital bed is soft, he must admit; the sheets crisp; the wool blanket comforting. Without being aware of it, he slips into sleep.

When he awakens, the world outside his window has grown dark and the guard shift has changed: Bertie is here. He's taking notes from a textbook; he's a criminal justice major at Southern Maine Community College. His progress is slow; he can take only three classes a semester because he must work full-time, with a baby on the way. Rumple-Gold has no doubt he'll succeed: the lad has grit.

Bertie's concentration is broken by a loud, embarrassing noise. Rumple's stomach is growling.

"Oh, hey," Bertie greets him blankly, his mind still on his book.

"Hey, Bertie," Rumple answers.

"How're you feeling?"

He shifts in the bed and draws in a deep breath. "Good," he says in surprise. "Really good. Hungry." Rumple presses the call button and when a nurse pops in, he asks for food.

She glances at her watch—she's about to argue that he slept through supper and the kitchen is closed—and then she checks the chart clipped to the foot of his bed. "Oh," she exclaims, then she looks at him. "Oh! Yes, I'll see what we can rustle up."

While she's gone, Rumple tears the cellophane off Archie's fruit basket and helps himself to an apple. . . and then a pear. . . and another pear.

Bertie grins and, forgetting the rules, he dashes from the room. Unlike Estrilda, Rumple has not been chained to the bed, so the poor kid could get into serious trouble if any of the hospital staff take notice of the unattended prisoner. Rumple takes a banana from the basket and keeps a close watch on the door for passersby.

When Bertie returns, breathless, he confesses he's just passed along the news to Belle in the waiting room. Relieved, she's phoned Ruby; although Granny's is closed for the night, the waitress promises to whip up a meal from her own kitchen and drive it over.

Within the hour Rumple is surrounded by food and people. Whale's been called back, and Belle has managed to sneak in, standing quiet and still at the back of the room, where no one seems to notice. The nurse takes Rumple's temperature as Whale takes the blood pressure reading.

"Everything's fine," Whale confirms. "Go ahead, eat! Just not too fast—you'll get gas."

* * *

The next morning, Whale releases him. "No physical explanation for your nausea," he reports. "Try to keep eating. . . small meals, eaten slowly. . . I'll check in on you later in the week. You're free to go ho—" Then he remembers to whom he's speaking. "Go back," he finishes lamely.

Emma and Helewise come for him, in handcuffs, in obedience to the rules. To his amazement, they don't lead him outside—they take him through the emergency room to a secured door, where they punch a set of numbers into a keypad. On the other side of the door is a short flight of stairs.

Though he's never been here, he knows where he is. "No!"

He locks his knees so they can't force him down the stairs.

"I know what you're thinking," Emma says, clutching his right arm. "But it's not that any more. I promise."

At his left side, Helewise whispers, "Have faith."

"No. You're not sticking me down there. No." He tries to turn but they hold him fast.

Emma sounds sorry. "Don't fight me, Mr. Gold. It's the only space we had that was usable for a prison. But the guys fixed it up. It's nothing like it was. I promise. Please." She gives him a push.

It's too late now for dignity. He allows them to feel him shake through his shirtsleeves. One foot at a time, he takes the stairs to the basement.

To Regina's secret "insane asylum."

As he is led down the stairs, he hears Regina laugh.


	44. Chapter 44

Forty-Four

He takes the last step and he's facing a nurses' station. A laptop, a monitor for the security cameras and a coffee maker are the only items on the desk. Waldo sits in a roller chair behind the laptop, typing away. He glances up and smiles a brief greeting as the newcomers approach.

The women turn him to the left. Now he's facing—well, it looks like a studio apartment without the kitchen appliances: there's a twin bed with a yellow and blue quilt and thick pillows, a nightstand holding a framed photo of Henry and a small television, an arm chair, an ottoman and a half-sized bookcase filled with books. Paintings representing Storybrooke scenes hang on the eggshell-white wall. Against the far wall, a curtained window looks out onto the yard behind the hospital. In one corner of the room is a closet; in another, a tiny bathroom with a commode and a shower. He can see all this because the room has a large barred window facing the nurses' station.

It's. . . nice. Despite the locked door and the bars on the windows.

Something flies at the large window; hands seize the bars and attempt to rattle them. "Rumple! How kind of you to join me in our own private Hell."

Regina. He's never seen her look so unkempt. Her black blouse is ripped at the shoulder and her hair hangs lopsided. Nor has he ever seen her so colorless: too many years of wearing heavy makeup have washed out her face's natural colors, so now that she has no rouge or lipstick or mascara, she's small and faded.

"Isn't the irony just too delicious?" When he won't answer, she persists, "You do know where we are, don't you? In fact, the cell they're taking you to—guess who lived there until the curse broke? Sidney Glass. You remember Sidney, don't you? Wonder what happened to him. And my luxury condo," she waves a hand over her shoulder, "for thirty years was home to your lover. Margie, is it? Verna? Of course, it looked a lot different then. Now, we're in a damn day spa!"

The door of his new "home" stands open. The smell of fresh paint lingers, along with the overpowering stench of fairy dust. The women urge him inside, leave him standing on a colorful rag rug in the middle of the floor as Emma unlocks his handcuffs. They have him facing the closet, where his clothes already hang. Helewise, holding his arm, whispers in his ear, "Good will come of this, I promise."

Emma hooks the handcuffs onto her belt and steps into the corridor. He notices a radio on the bookcase has been turned on in preparation for his arrival: Britten's _A Midsummer Night's Dream _is playing softly. The book he was reading back in the sheriff's office lies open on the nightstand, next to the portable tv and a framed photo of Belle.

It's worse than Wonderland. Not because there's anything wrong with the room, but because there's everything wrong with the location. This room will torture Belle for the rest of Rumplestiltskin's life.

Helewise urges him to turn around, and then she steps out, locking the door. Under the window that faces outside is his Saxony wheel.

* * *

At noon, Waldo carries down trays from the cafeteria. Today's lunch features ham and American cheese sandwiches, carrot sticks, fruit cocktail and cottage cheese.

Rumple takes a tentative bite of the sandwich. It's dry, but it stays down. He takes another bite—and immediately loses his lunch.

When Waldo comes for the dishes he clicks his tongue at the overabundance of leftovers. "Think you could keep down some Jello?"

Rumple, lying back on the bed, shakes his head.

At 3:24 Snow comes. She's carrying a basket of wool, which Waldo inspects before unlocking Rumple-Gold's cell and sliding it in to him. Snow borrows a chair from the nurses' station and sits down to chat, describing the progress being made on the remodeling of the pawnshop. "The builders have been there since noon," she explains. "I'm sure that's why Belle isn't here yet. She probably lost track of time. But I'm sure she'll be right along." Her voice trails off.

He's sitting in his arm chair, which he's drawn up to the window. He doesn't answer.

Snow changes the topic in search of anything cheerful. "Henry's Little League team won their game yesterday, three to one."

"That's great," he says.

"Charming's learning how to barbeque. You should see him. He bought this 'kiss the cook' apron and these huge tongs. The town's throwing a Fourth of July picnic this year and he swears he's going to be ready for it," she chuckles.

"Great," Rumple-Gold says again.

She decides to drop the fake cheer. "Rumplestiltskin, Emma says you were sick again today. You're nothing but skin and bones now. If Doctor Whale can't help you, don't you think we should send for a specialist from Boston, maybe?"

"I suppose so," he agrees, but in truth, he doesn't.

Before she can set a definite course for action, though, a clatter on the stairs interrupts. It won't be Belle. It can't be Belle. But he stands anyway, his hands on the bars, and listens to the female voice giving instructions as the new arrival approaches.

It isn't Belle. It's Emma, who's brought Henry and Grace over from school. At her urging they sit on the carpeted floor at Snow's feet. The barred window is long enough that they can see in. "Hey, Mr. Gold!" Henry chirps. "How's it goin'? Did Gran tell you, the Coon Cats won yesterday. Grace pitched four innings!"

"Before you give Mr. Gold the play-by-play," Emma interrupts, "I'm going upstairs to get you kids a coke. Back in a minute. Oh, by the way, since the hospital's an extra five blocks from the school, I've decided to extend visiting hour. From now on it's three to five, so the kids don't have to rush."

"Thank you, Sheriff," Rumple-Gold says, and the kids follow suit, adding their own "thank you, Sheriff"'s.

"Mr. Gold!" Grace exclaims. "Do we get the rest of the story today? You left off with King Midas turning the dragonslayer's sword into gold."

"Yes, the rest of the story," he murmurs, and he fulfills that promise, with his ear trained on the stairs. At five o'clock supper comes and the children leave, but there's no sign of Belle.

* * *

"I want a deal," Regina begs when the children are gone. He can't quite see her, only her hand, reaching out through the bars. "Rumplestiltskin, do you hear me? I want a deal."

"What do you want?" He's too tired to put up with her shenanigans.

"Henry."

"I can't do much about your custody rights, Regina. You'll have to find another attorney."

"You know that's not what I mean. When he comes back tomorrow, I want you to start talking to him about me. Your words are every bit as spellbinding as your magic. Turn his heart around, back to me."

"Regina. . . his heart was never yours."

He hears her sobbing.

That evening, he manages to keep down a bowl of vegetable beef soup. The solid foods on his plate are returned to the cafeteria untouched.

* * *

There's a commotion at the top of the stairs. He runs from his wheel to the window. He can't see anything but he can hear.

"You can do this. Hold my hand. I won't let you go. Just one step, Belle, just one." It's Hopper, in all his soothing sincerity.

And it's Belle.

Even Regina stands to listen.

"Very good, Belle! Excellent!"

Belle laughs nervously. "I did it."

"One more. Can you do one more? Just one more and that will be all for today. Tomorrow we'll try for three."

Silence, and then a shriek and a clatter. "Oh my gods, oh my gods, I can't do this," she's sobbing, and Hopper is soothing her. "It's all right, Belle. We tried too much, that's all. We'll come back tomorrow and try again."

And then silence again.

Rumple-Gold slumps into his arm chair as Regina laughs.

* * *

At 3:30 Emma arrives, this time with Henry and four other children. Henry introduces them. "They're from the Coon Cats, Mr. Gold. They want to hear about the dragonslayer."

He opens his mouth, intending to say, "Not today, Henry." But instead what comes out is "Once upon a time there was a poor young shepherd boy. . . ." His voice shakes as he spins the tale, and they think he's acting out the dragon's fear of the shepherd boy's sword. They applaud when he is finished, and Emma herds them home.

* * *

Another day passes, and still Belle does not come.

* * *

In the morning he sits listlessly at his wheel, an empty spindle in his hands; he's too tired to spin today. Bertie arrives with more oatmeal and a note tucked around a rose. "I'm sorry. I'm trying. I really am. I love you, Belle."

He folds the note and lays it on the nightstand next to his tapestry.

At 3:00 the voices issue from the top of the stairs. "One step, Belle, one step. Hold my hand."

"I did it, Dr. Hopper! I think. . . I think I can do one more. . . ."

She makes it to the third step today.

Even Regina smiles.

* * *

Belle makes it to the fifth step. Rumple-Gold hears her hoot in triumph.

Regina shouts, "Welcome back to Hell, Ms. French!"

A door slams.

* * *

In the sixth week of Rumple-Gold's incarceration, people he's never met, as well as Gold's tenants and Rumple's old clients, begin wandering in with home remedies for his ailment. Emma sniffs and pokes at the contents each jar, cup and bowl that's delivered, lest some of his old enemies might take advantage of the situation to try to poison him. As the days pass, her suspicion wanes. It rather seems, she decides, that a sort of contest has sprung up to see whose home remedy can cure the prisoner.

Nothing works.

* * *

Eventually, other children start wandering in with Henry and Grace. They want stories too. The rules place no limit on the number of visitors, so Emma permits it, as long as the kids don't get in the way of police business. It helps, perhaps, that the more kids who come to hear Rumple's stories, the more Regina seethes.

As the summer burns itself out, parents begin to show up. At first they're curious about the convict storyteller; some are concerned that he may be corrupting the youth. But one by one, several of them decide with a shrug, as long as we're here anyway—and they ask Rumple for instruction in magic.

It drains him, but he teaches them a few honest spells: spells to find lost car keys, spells to fix windows broken by errant baseballs, spells to protect themselves from their own clumsy attempts to use magic in ways they shouldn't.

* * *

He awakens to sunlight and birdsong. He stretches across the comfortable mattress, eavesdrops on the conversation Waldo is having with Regina. From his barred window he can see Waldo seated in a straight chair beside Regina's window. He can almost see bits of Regina: an elbow, a shoulder.

"The moment you ask. The very same moment."

"You'd do that. . .for me?"

"Let us do this for you, Regina. Just say the word."

"You might die."

"Maybe. But we might win."

"I'll think about it."

* * *

When he brushes his teeth, Rumple-Gold finds blood on the toothbrush. When he combs his hair, he finds a clump of hair in the teeth of the comb.

Mother Superior carries the breakfast trays down. If he didn't know better, he would think her a former waitress, the way she balances a full tray in each hand. For Regina she has an omelet and sausage; for him, dry toast and oatmeal.

She sits outside his window as he spoons up a mouthful of the oatmeal. He feels like a zoo animal on display: Rumplecillius aureus, state monster of Maine.

"It's the magic," she says abruptly. "It's killing you."

He wrinkles his nose, Rumplishly. "To be specific, it's the fairy dust. Isn't it?"

"Our magic is attacking yours in your body, like white blood cells attacking cancer cells."

"Considering it's making me sick, I'd be inclined to say your magic is the malignant one, not mine, dearie."

"I've spoken to James. We agreed that if you'll give up your magic, we'll have the fairy dust removed. You'll no longer be a threat to anyone then."

"Do you really think I'm much of a threat now?"

"You must give it up, Rumplestiltskin."

"Gladly. Let's call the dwarves back in and have them vacuum the place today."

"No,_ your_ magic. You must give up your magic, before it kills you."

He sneers, but in his present state he can't come across as convincingly warlike. "Tell me, dear, if our positions were reversed, would you give up your magic?"

"But they aren't, and you're dying, just as surely as Cora did."

"Cora was sick long before she came to Storybrooke." He pokes his spoon at a lump in the oatmeal, tries to break it up, and when it doesn't break up fast enough to suit him, he squashes it.

"You will die, Rumplestiltskin. Is your power worth your life?"

He doesn't reply.

She presses on. "You will never use your magic again. It's worthless to you."

He finds another lump to squash.

She stands, smoothing down her skirt; it's her equivalent of his catchphrase "we're done here." He can feel her eyes boring down on him, burning through his flesh. "Give it up and live. Or if you won't, then tell me how you want me to explain to Henry and Paige and Belle why you chose magic over life."

He rises and takes refuge behind his spinning wheel. She spins on her heel and walks out.

* * *

When the children have gone, their minds full of dragons and swords, Hopper comes to him. He shuffles his feet, then makes a decision. "I don't discuss my clients'. . . situations. . . with other people, not even their own family members, but I. . . .You need to know how difficult this is for her." He doesn't have to clarify that he's referring to Belle. "How very traumatized she was, here." He strikes the wall to indicate he means these cells. "It was nothing like it is now. If you could have seen it—well, I don't think Regina would be alive today if you'd seen what this place was like then. And it's not just this place. In Belle's mind, those stairs represent a return to the dungeon in Fairytale Land."

The Dark Castle's dungeon. The one Rumplestiltskin locked her in.

But no, Hopper means another. "The things Regina did to her there, or had her minions do to her," he shakes his head in disbelief. "It's hard to imagine anyone could be so cruel." Hopper sucks in a breath. "I've already said more than I should, but you need to know what she's up against and how very hard she's trying, for you."

"Is it too much?" Rumple-Gold worries. "Would it be better for her if she didn't try?"

"I don't know." Hopper runs a hand through his hair. "With a trauma this severe, maybe. But then again, if she conquers this phobia, she will be well along her way to healing. Sometimes all a therapist can do is to trust the patient to say when it's too much."

"Tell her for me—tell her whatever she needs to do, I understand. Tell her—unless you think it will put pressure on her—tell her I love her."

Hopper seems confident of this one thing. "No, it won't put pressure on her. It'll help her to hear that."

* * *

He awakes to find a streak of blood across his fluffy white pillow. His sinuses are clogged and when he showers he discovers dried blood beneath his nose.

He sits in his arm chair and dozes. He dreams that he's scrambling up the sheer face of a cliff, but his feet can find no purchase and he slides to the bottom. Over and over he tries, because Belle is waiting at the top of the cliff, huddled in her cloak, calling his name.

Waldo brings another note with breakfast. "There are ten steps. I will not stop trying until I reach the bottom. Until I reach you. Love, Belle."

Brave Belle. If she can try, so can he.

After all his books, all his experimentation, all his interviews with other practitioners of magic—he probably knows more about magic that any living being on the planet, but he has no idea how to accomplish what he's decided to do. As far as he knows, the only way to get rid of his magic is to transfer it to someone else by means of the dagger, by means of his own death, and that kind of defeats the purpose, doesn't it.

The Blue Fairy has given him the impression she knows a way, but he doesn't trust her, not with this. For her, there are only two colors in the world: black and white. He needs a collaborator who thinks in Technicolor.

"Helewise," he says softly. This must be done quietly, lest Regina interrupt. If she had an inkling of what's in his mind, she'd use his weakness against him.

The messenger appears and kneels beside his chair. She's dressed not in her Storybrooke PD uniform but in her white gossamer and silk. It's her day off. "I'm here, Rumplestiltskin."

"Help me to do it?"

"Of course."

"Is there another way, besides the dagger?"

"The dagger is the way." She squeezes his hand; they both look and find blood pooling around his fingernails. "Have faith."

He swallows hard. His eyes plead with her. "Is this the only way?"

"The dagger is the way."

He nods. "There's a cabin in the woods. A river behind the cabin. A pine tree on the east bank of the river; one of the branches was hit by lightning and it's grown back deformed. Dig down about four feet at the base of that tree. It's wrapped in a kerchief."

"I know where to go." She rises, but before she can leave he grasps her hand.

"Helewise, I'm scared."

"We'll all be with you. Good will come of this, I promise."

He's so tired; he closes his eyes for a few moments. She's gone and back again so quick he doesn't have time to change his mind. She holds the kerchief in both hands. Waldo and Beretrude flank her; funny, he hadn't heard them come in. He struggles to his feet: this moment requires the dignity of standing. As he holds out his hand he notices his fingernails have started bleeding again.

Helewise lays the kerchief in his hand. He spreads it open, removes the dagger it's been protecting, discards the kerchief. The dagger is lighter than he remembered; the handle is surprisingly warm, considering where it's been buried. He turns the weapon over and over in his hands. In the old world, he had once thought it stylish, but here, where his tastes have shifted toward simplicity in design, he finds the dagger so ornate as to be tacky.

He knows he can't do it himself: he tried before, after Bae left, a dozen times before he came to understand the magic wouldn't allow him to kill himself. "You'll have to," he smiles wryly and presents the dagger to Helewise with a Rumplesque flourish. He straightens his back, squares his chest.

"Don't be afraid," she urges, then she plunges the dagger deep into his chest.


	45. Chapter 45

Forty-Five

The force of the blow—but not the pain, for he feels no pain at all, only a warm wetness spreading across his chest and dampening his t-shirt—sends him to his knees. The last thing he sees is the rag rug rising up to meet and cradle his nose. Such craftsmanship, he thinks; he wonders who wove this rug. Surely not a machine. And then he's standing in a pitch-black tunnel. No, more like a sensory-deprivation tank, because he can't hear or smell anything either. But he really couldn't say for sure because he's never climbed into a sensory-deprivation tank, though he heard that the Red Poppy Day Spa on South Moncton has one and he's been kind of curious to see it, except for Mr. Gold to walk into a spa—

His vision closes in on itself as gentle hands lift him by the shoulders and legs and gentle voices speak comfortingly in the ancient tongue, a language that once was his but now he struggles to remember. He's laid on his soft mattress. In the little space of sight he has left, he watches the blood bubble and pool and stream around the blade of the tacky dagger. His blood is a pale red laced with streaks of purple—his magic, wrapped around his blood. The mixture stinks like rotting dragon flesh in a clogged sewer. His stomach churns in disgust at his own body.

He should have taken his shirt off; that's $9 wasted. He and Estrilda and Bae or Adele as the case may be could live for a month on $9. Why is the hut so cold when Saer has a cook-fire burning and the old man bent over it, stirring a spicy lamb stew in a kettle? Rumple bites down on fresh baked bread and butter, butter that he paid for with his own earnings at market, which makes everything taste twice as delicious except the butter tastes coppery-salty-sweet. Belle douses the cook-fire with a ladle of water and the ashes hiss but some of the embers still glow. From his now undraped window he can see the moon floating swollen on a mattress of clouds.

He can feel the messenger's magic seep into his pores, streaking through his veins on a search-and-destroy mission; when her magic finds a corrupted cell, it attacks decisively, crushing the cell, obliterating it, then moving on. The strong threads of her magic strike his heart, weave a cocoon around it, then her magic prods and tugs, absorbing the poison it finds. Such a war it is, raging in his body; he observes with a cool detachment, unafraid.

* * *

When he awakens he has heartburn; he gets that a lot these days because he's an old man. . . . because he's a man. He lifts his hand and orders the magic into his fingertips but the tingling and burning won't come and the hand remains a plain, saggy-skinned brown, not the swirly purple it's supposed to turn, so that's how he knows he's just a man now. But the hand hovering over his chest, the hand that he knows isn't his because it holds the dagger in place, that hand is glowing as it should, a reddish purple, a deeper, richer color than his own magic produces, a magic that doesn't shimmer as his does but rather remains constantly strong. Another hand strokes his forehead, spreading peppermint oil from temple to temple. He wants to ask them to turn the heat up but he falls asleep again.

* * *

This time when he awakes he's alone. He's lying face up on his sleeping mat and he can hear morning birds tweeting, which tells him he's overslept, but he's so tired anyway as he fumbles for his walking stick and hauls his creaky old bones into the day. He needs to get breakfast on for Bae, who sleeps so soundly in Estrilda's bed, seemingly unaware that his mother has abandoned him. Rumple picks up the leaky wooden bucket and hobbles out of the hut toward the communal well.

Except when he leaves the hut it's not his yard he walks into, it's the Great Hall of the Dark Castle. The fireplace is cold and empty: Belle must have overslept too. On his windowsill a crow caws, laughing at him as he leans heavily on his gold-handled cane. A clunk-clunk overrides the crow's laughter and Rumple turns his head to track the noise to its Source. In the corner where his Great Wheel should be a loom has been erected and a woman in white silk sits on a bench beside it. She's working so studiously she doesn't notice his approach, nor does she react when he sets a hand on her shoulder and leans in to admire her lovely little tapestry depicting a blissful meadow scene with a spinning wheel waiting on a hill. He wants to compliment her on her artistry, until his scalp starts to itch and he becomes aware there's something not right: she's weaving backwards, she's _unweaving_, taking the pretty little tapestry apart, and he protests as her hands unweave the sun and the sky and the green hills and finally the Great Wheel. It's all gone, all gone, and he is insulted as at last she acknowledges his presence, turning on her bench to drop the now separated threads into his hands. He tries to shout at her but his voice won't work and his mouth fills with blood.

She grasps his hands, her own brown wrinkled hands closing over his, forcing his to close into a fist. He gapes as a magenta cloud surrounds the four closed hands. She releases him and he spreads his hands to discover not the pile of loose threads but a new tapestry depicting a golden star in night sky. He runs his fingertips across the threads: he's never felt anything so fine and delicate before, not even the silk Belle brought him to spin.

He tucks the tapestry into his blood-soaked shirt, next to his war-battered heart. Like his old tapestry, the new one carries four distinct energies: Bae's, Belle's, Rumplestiltskin's and Gold's. The energies hum against his skin, reassuring him that everyone lives, everyone is well. But there's something missing; he ponders a long while before he realizes this tapestry holds no magic.

He shudders and steps back as the spinner watches him. His body doesn't fit him any more. He closes his eyes and lets go.

* * *

When he awakens this time, he's back in the prison cell, the one the dwarves built and Emma furnished just for him, the one he will spend the rest of his life in. With an average life expectancy of 75.6 years, he should have about twenty-four left. But there's no way to know for sure, with a monster who's already lived nearly three centuries.

The three messengers of the True Morning Star surround his bed. They say nothing but they watch his face anxiously. He smiles at them, and they smile back in relief. He struggles to sit up. Beretrude's arms lift him; Waldo adjusts the pillows behind him.

He should change his t-shirt. He wonders how he'll explain to Emma where the blood came from. "Don't get up. You should rest," Waldo urges.

He looks from one to another, finding reassurance, before his gaze settles on Helewise. Helewise in her white gossamer and silk, Helewise in her scaly green-gold skin and pirate's bullion eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says.

She answers with a maniacal giggle. "Just an after-effect, dearie. I found traces of the Dark One leeching your heart." She grins, displaying rotten teeth. "And I crushed them, like snails beneath my boot. It felt grand." She lifts her hands to show him what she holds: the bloody dagger, its blade broken in two.

Beretrude waves her hand and Helewise vanishes. Before Rumple can protest, she explains, "It was an intense battle. I sent her home for some R & R. The Master will see to her injuries Himself." She pats Rumple's shoulder. "Don't worry; she's in His hands. He's so proud of both of you."

"Now, why don't you get some rest too?" Waldo suggests. "We'll be nearby if you need anything. Before we go, would you like something to drink? Are you thirsty?"

He assesses his body. He's a little sore, a little tired, but his body feels strangely quiet, now that magic no longer thrums through it. He breathes in deep, his sinuses and lungs clear for the first time in months, and his nose is no longer assaulted by the stench of fairy dust. And there's an unfamiliar rumbling in his belly. Abruptly, he names it: "I'm hungry."

Beretrude claps her hands with a laugh, and Waldo wiggles his fingers, producing a bed tray overloaded with food. He bows elegantly. "Milord, breakfast is served."

* * *

Emma storms down the stairs, tears around the corner and comes to a screeching halt in front of his window. She starts to speak, but decides on an annoyed "aw, hell, forget this," then fumbles with the keypad. "Aw, damn." She responds when the door doesn't open; she jabs at the keys again and finally gains admittance. She gapes at him, sitting there so placidly at his spinning wheel, thread between his fingers, and then her eyes fall on the dirty dishes waiting on a tray on his bed. There are signs that the dishes once held eggs, biscuits and cream gravy, grits with honey (Belle's told her how she got Rumple hooked on Southern cooking in the days before—well, in the days before). Once held, but there's barely a crumb left now, and a dirty fork and dirty spoon have been laid neatly and properly across the plate, a cloth napkin discreetly covering it all. Ms. Manners would be proud. Hell, Ms. Betty Crocker would be proud of the way Gold tucked into that breakfast, obviously.

"So," she clears her throat.

"So," he answers with a smile.

She nods. "All right then." She nods again. "See you at lunchtime." Her head cocks to one side as she walks away, trying to figure this out.

* * *

At 2:54, voices issue from the top of the stairs.

"You can do this, Belle. Take your time."

"I _will _do this, Archie. I won't let that bitch take him away from me again."

After a few minutes of silence, she shouts, "Rumplestiltskin! I _will _do this!"

He hears a door close. A few minutes later, Waldo brings him a note. In a bold flourishing hand she's written the number 5, and under it, "Where you go, I go! Love, Belle."

* * *

At 3:30, the pitching battery and the outfield of the Coon Cats arrive for their afternoon story. Today he tells them about a blind craftsman and his young apprentice, and the nasty pocket-robbing bullies that the two overcome together. The children have to wait their turn for the story, however, because some of their parents got here first—not for magic lessons today, but to deliver little thank-you gifts in return for previous lessons. There's a basket of strawberries, picked just this morning from Ma Hubbard's garden; there's a Tupperware container of Marco's from-scratch lasagna; there's a bowl of Bo Peep's lamb stew; there's a plate of Belle's Nawlins style red-beans-and-rice. There would have been a bottle of Granny's elderberry wine, except Emma had to put the kibosh on that (rules, you know).

* * *

In the evening, after the impromptu picnic has broken up, the dirty dishes have been collected and everyone's gone home except those who must remain to fulfill all that the law requires, Regina toys with the stem of the last of the strawberries and leans out, as far as the bars will allow her, to try to see her neighbor. "Gold," she calls in a voice that for once is neither angry nor mocking. "Are you awake?"

He leans out too, as far as the bars allow. He wonders why she chose to call him Gold, but he doesn't ask. "I'm awake."

"What happened this morning?"

He doesn't answer right away, so she presses, "Three of the guards were in your cell a long time. You weren't. . . sick, were you?"

"I was. I'm fine now."

She grunts. "Obviously. You tore through that lasagna like Sherman tore through Georgia. Why didn't they send for Whale?"

"He couldn't have helped." Rumple shifts his weight onto his left hip; it's an old habit. He still sometimes reaches for his cane.

"I heard the Blue Fairy say you were going to die unless you gave up your magic."

"Yeah. That's what happened this morning. I gave it up."

"Really?"

"Really."

She's silent for a long moment before she asks, "How does it feel?"

"Different," he admits. "Human."

"You only just got your magic back a few months ago. Must've been tough, giving it up again so soon."

"It's kind of a relief. Like I'd been hauling around an anvil on my back all these years and now I can let it down."

"How are you going to protect yourself now?"

"The human way. I'm stronger than I look, dearie." He shifts his feet again. "But I don't expect to need to do much fighting any more."

"You seem to be losing enemies by the minute."

"Yeah. Too bad it took me all these years." His tone grows bitter. "All that time wasted. I could assess to the penny the value of any object you can name, common or exotic, but I never knew the value of the things that matter."

"Rumplestiltskin?"

"Regina?"

"I'm sorry I called you Gold just now. I know that's not who you want to be."

"I've come to terms with it. Gold has qualities I never had, ones I find I need. Patience. The ability to evolve. He's less a stick-in-the-mud than I am, really. A better listener, that's for sure." He draws in a breath and holds it a moment; breathing comes so easily now. His clothes are much too baggy but his belly is full and his hands no longer shake under unnatural power. "Regina, if you want a relationship with Henry, you'll have to give up your relationship with magic."

He's just thrown cold water on their warm moment. She's suspicious now. "You mean like you did this morning. Surrender my magic to a bunch of simpering, glorified bootlickers. Surrender my _power_."

"Take back what's rightfully yours and let go of what's not."

"I don't know how you could've been so weak as to trust them. They're worse than fairies, can't you see that? I guess you'll find that out soon enough, now that you have nothing to fight them with, when they make a bootlicker out of you. We're dark ones, Rumple! Rulers of the earth and all that walks upon it. Where's your pride? It's what we were meant to be, our destiny, and you threw it away for—what? Lasagna and strawberries. You were Rumplestiltskin! There was a time that meant something. Kings would quake and cower at your feet. Queens would trade their firstborn to curry your favor. They ruled lands but you ruled them."

"I'd rather have my son's respect and my wife's trust than quaking kings cowering at my feet."

"Better to die a warrior than to live a belly-crawler."

"I won't die a killer."

"You fool. You threw it all away for bread." She slams her hand against the wall that divides her cell from his, since she can't have the satisfaction of slapping him. "Don't talk to me any more, coward. I'll have no more to do with beggars."

He hears her bed squeak as she throws herself upon it. Ah, but he's planted a seed and it will grow, he knows it, and it will bear good fruit someday. He lies down on his own bed, the new tapestry tucked into his fresh shirt, Belle's notes in his hand.

* * *

It's hard to keep track of the days in his head, so Emma allows him a calendar, and that's how he knows when November 3 has arrived. A Scorpio Sun joined a Sagittarius Moon to produce the adventurous, loyal and bold Belle, and it is this pairing that Rumplestiltskin represents in his gift for her: a tapestry of a scorpion archer aiming for the moon against a field of blue.

The only question is, how will he get it to her?

Any number of messengers would be happy to make the delivery, of course, but he wants the pleasure of watching her eyes light up, her quick smile catch fire; he wants to feel her arms fling around his neck as she presses a grateful kiss on his eager mouth. But so far, she's stuck at Step Seven and not even the kindest of sheriffs can grant a day's furlough for a prisoner with a life sentence.

He folds the tapestry carefully, wraps it in the pretty silver paper Emma has allowed him to have, and sets it on his nightstand. He'll ask Henry to deliver it.

But at 3:30 when half the Coon Cats arrive for their story, Henry isn't with them, and at 4:00 when they run home to complete their homework before supper, Henry still hasn't come. Henry has been so devoted to this mission, he even has a name for it: Operation Storyspinner, which Rumple rather likes. "Have you heard anything about Henry?" Rumple-Gold asks Waldo. "Is he ill?" But Waldo shakes his head.

At 5:00 the door above the stairs opens. That will be Emma, bringing supper; he'll ask her about Henry, and then he'll ask her to deliver the birthday gift. But he's learned to identify each of the guards by their footfalls on the stairs, and it's not Emma's boots that are clattering down the stairs; in fact, it's more than one set of feet. He picks out Henry's sneakers—although not skipping every other step, the way Henry usually does—and the shoes of two women, one in flats, one in heels.

And then there's a voice, shouting to him: "Rumplestiltskin! Ten!"

He flies at the bars of his window. He could almost rip them off in his excitement. Before he can catch his breath, she's there, the smell of a crisp autumn breeze in her hair, her fragrance (it's called True Rose, Snow has told him) light on her wrists as she raises her hands to cup his face.

"No physical contact between prisoners and visitors," Helewise warns before pointedly turning her back to the prisoner and addressing Belle's second escort. "Master Henry, I have a sudden thirst. Will you accompany me to the coke machine?"

Henry hooks his arm in true gentlemanly fashion so the lady can slip her hand through the crook. "Sure thing, Ms. Helewise."

Belle's skin is chilly as he runs his fingertips across her cheek, but she quickly warms under his touch. He finds that not even iron bars can keep a determined woman from the lips of the man she loves. When she finally pulls her face back to catch her breath, he laughs in delight, and it's a new sound, neither Rumplestiltskin's giggle nor Gold's reserved chuckle. "All ten, Belle," he praises her. "I'm so proud of you." He kisses the back of her hand, then turns it over and kisses her wrist. "I know what it cost you."

"I had a lot of help. But I'm finally free of her." She glares in Regina's direction for just a moment, then returns her full attention to him. "No more nightmares. I'm free." She flushes suddenly. "Oh, I'm sorry." She stares at the bars separating them, and he realizes she thinks he's still imprisoned just because he's in prison.

"It's all right, Belle."

She cocks her head. "Your voice is different. Your eyes are different."

"I'm free too."

* * *

Belle leaves at 7 p.m., her lovely new tapestry tucked under her arm, Henry's hand in hers, and Henry's mom, escorting them both out and pretending not to notice how late it is. Helewise wanders over to Rumple-Gold's cell, a plate in her hand. She uses the back of her fork to pat up birthday cake crumbs and when there's absolutely nothing left to taste, she sighs in contentment. "What do you call that flavor again?"

"Angels food," Rumple-Gold replies.

She winks. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say it. Sure you don't want another slice? There's plenty left and you could use the calories."

"No, thank you."

She turns away, but he calls her back. "Helewise, welcome back. And thank you."

"You're welcome." She carries her dishes back to the nurses' station, then returns. She catches him studying her. "I'm fine, I promise. No lasting effects. See?" She widens her blue-green-brown eyes and leans forward.

"He took good care of you."

"He always does. And you look well too."

"They removed the fairy dust, the day after. But they didn't really need to."

"Does it feel strange not to have your magic?"

"Yes, but I'm getting used to it."

"You're worried, though, aren't you?"

"A little," he admits. "I can never leave, and without magic, how can I bring Bae here?"

"Don't worry, Rumplestiltskin. Just keep listening." She brightens. "How about a game of checkers?"

Just as he nods, the upstairs door opens. "Ah, Bertie. Right on time. Rumplestiltskin's ready to meet your challenge once more, provided you let him be red."

The boy sets down his backpack, retrieves the checker board from the shelf above the nurses' station and punches the code into the keypad. He rolls a chair into the cage as Rumple drags the spinning bench over to make a table of it. As they settle in, setting up their checkers, Rumple remarks, "You really need a haircut, young man."

Bertie guffaws. "You sound just like my father."


	46. Chapter 46

Forty-Six

**A/N. A little calm before the next storm.**

* * *

For about a month, Rumplestiltskin and Gold have been debating. Now that he's magic-less, Gold thinks, it's best not to dwell on the past. Especially now, so soon after the change, he needs to concentrate on all things human and no things supernatural. It's like the AA's advice to recovering alcoholics: avoid the drinking environment.

But Rumplestiltskin, the most knowledgeable of all mages, just has to know Helewise's procedure. In the old days, he never would have passed up the opportunity to learn from another practitioner—unless, Gold adds, the price was too high, as in this case.

And so he's fought the urge, but finally, the timing just seems too perfect: Regina has been taken upstairs for her annual well-woman exam—she's become particularly jumpy about the prospect of cancer after witnessing the fairy dust's effects on her mother and Rumple. It's such a quiet afternoon, and as they often do, he and Helewise are sitting across from one another (the cell door locked, of course; rules must be obeyed) and playing chess with neither pride nor money at stake; and they are rather evenly matched (he suspects she's dumbing down a bit for him) so neither player feels stressed. And then it just slips out. "Helewise, I've been wondering: why didn't I die?"

"Die?" she blinks, not comprehending at first. "Oh, do you mean the dagger?"

"The books say the only way to take a Dark One's magic is by killing him with the dagger. Yet you managed to take my magic with the dagger but without killing me. How?"

"It took five of us."

"Five?"

"Beretrude, Walderan, me, you and the Master. Each of us had a job to do. Your job, which you did unflinchingly, was to trust us. Did you feel any pain during the procedure?"

"Not really."

"That was Beretrude. Her magic managed your pain. I don't know if you detected it afterward—given your condition, it would've been highly remarkable if you had—but she took your pain onto herself. She was one tired little messenger after that, I can tell you. Of course she wouldn't have let you see that. Do you remember hallucinating during the procedure?"

"Yes, I thought I was having one of those 'your life flashing before your eyes' moments."

"Sort of. That was Walderan. He sent your consciousness back into your past. He tried to place you into some comfortable moments—not unhappy ones but not too happy ones, either. We needed to keep you calm, so he was aiming for. . . contentment, not excitement. He's kind of new—well, to be honest, this was his first attempt at such a thing. He admitted to me he thought he'd gotten some of your memories jumbled. Memories are so hard to grab onto; they're like goldfish, tiny, slippery things. You scoop up one and in the pursuit of the second, the first one gets away. We apologize if his work caused you any disorientation."

"It was rather interesting, actually. Kept my mind occupied." He struggles to recall. "You were there. . . the star tapestry. . . ."

"No. Rumplestiltskin, that was the Master. He took my form because He wanted to keep you comfortable. And your tapestry—once He had extracted the magic from it, He made it a new thing out of the materials you provided, as a way of showing you that you can be made into a new thing too. He took the threads you provided—Belle's and Bae's and Gold's and Rumplestiltskin's—and He bound them, not with magic, which you know always comes with a price, but with love, which always comes free."

She gives him time to think about what she's said, then she adds, "I've heard you say it time and time again, but you never seemed to accept it for yourself: Love is the most powerful magic. And you have it: you don't need your old, flawed magic. You have love, if you'd only realize it."

"I'd have to be an idiot not to."

"I've been waiting a long time to hear you say that. Well, not exactly that, but something like it. I know what you went through: I went through it with you. You felt like you were cursed from the start. And you're right; it wasn't fair; every baby deserves to be cared for and wanted, and you had a rough start, compared to most."

"Who were they, my parents? Real parents, I mean?"

"In my books, Saer and Osbert and Clotild did a pretty good job of fulfilling that role. But you're asking about your biological parents. You won't like the answer. Do you still want to hear it?"

"Yeah."

She sits back in his arm chair, the chess set forgotten. "Well, your mother was a fourteen-year-old named Nicola. Her father was a builder; he was gone most of the time. Her mother was a mean-tempered woman who raised five children with the back of her hand. Your father was a sixteen-year-old runaway named Ernald. He made his living by picking pockets and begging. He knew your mother less than two months before he enticed her into the woods. But to his credit, he provided for her after she ran away from home, until you were born. You were a breech; Ernald was all the doctor Nicola had."

"My knee."

"He damaged it, trying to turn you around in the womb."

"And afterwards, they left me to die."

"I'm sorry, Rumplestiltskin. It may be why you've had this compulsion to find new families for unwanted children. . . although your methods were highly questionable. I hope, now that you know about Ernald and Nicola, you'll forgive them, when you remember what you have now."

"What happened to them? Did they stay together?"

"No. Rumplestiltskin, I would rather not. . . "

"Please. I'm a three-hundred-year-old man. Nothing you can say will shock me."

"The morning after your birth, Ernald left her and you alone in the woods. He said he was going to beg for food, but he never came back. Nicola left you when she realized she'd been abandoned. But the Master had a plan for you from the very first, and so He sent a woodsman to find you."

"Eustace and Abreda? They were part of the plan?"

"You may not see it, but yes."

"What happened to Nicola?"

"She went back to her parents. She told them the baby was stillborn. They threw her out anyway. She chose to destroy herself and them: she went to the tavern her father frequented and she began to sell her body for food. She didn't live the year. She died unforgiving and unforgiven, but she was not alone and she was not unloved. No one ever is, unless they choose it. Beretrude was with her."

He fiddles with his knight. There's a question on his mind but it's such a selfish one he won't voice it. Helewise answers it for him anyway. "On the day you die, your room will be crowded to overflowing."

"Bae?"

"You'll have his love to carry you over the bridge, if you choose it. Even at the moment of death, all men and women have free will, so it's your call, Rumplestiltskin." She studies the chess board. "And it's your move."

* * *

Belle has never heard of Thanksgiving. Henry has to explain it to her, the whole shebang, from cornucopia centerpieces and children's hand-turkeys to the Macy's parade and football games. She listens politely, but her interest skyrockets when he describes the two very best parts of Thanksgiving: families and feasts. When he begins to describe the traditional Thanksgiving meal, she grabs a pen and takes notes and immediately a plan forms in her head, for any excuse to celebrate anything with the man she considers family is more than welcome, and if that excuse also provides an excuse to cook, she's all for it. Her excitement is such that she rushes off to the grocery store just as soon as Henry pauses to catch his breath. With Emma's permission, she drags Henry with her, because she doesn't know the difference between yams and sweet potatoes. As she pushes the wire cart up and down the aisles—oh, how she loves the grocery store!—she's absolutely certain that no holiday could possibly exceed Thanksgiving for total perfection.

Until she remembers that Henry and all the other kids, and their parents, and Rumple, and all the lovers in Storybrooke, probably have never experienced the "family" part of Thanksgiving. Poor Henry, spending every Thanksgiving of his life with Regina. But that's changed now; he has Emma, James and Snow.

This thought reminds her of the one flaw in her perfect plan: Regina. For Belle intends to bring a traditional Thanksgiving meal to the prison, for Rumple and the guards to enjoy, and she'll invite Archie, to whom she owes a big thank-you. Even if they can't sit down at a dining table together, she'll make it as special as the rules will allow, and she suspects Emma will make a few allowances on this perfect holiday. But as for Regina. . . well, she can't exactly be uninvited, can she? And as much as Belle relishes the satisfaction of walking triumphantly past Regina's cell at 3:00 every single day (and watching Regina seethe), she's not keen on sharing this perfect holiday with the bitch, who will no doubt complain that the turkey's too dry and the stuffing's too salty, not because they are, but because Belle cooked them.

At 2:45 on the day before the perfect holiday, she flips the sign on her Internet café/bookstore to "closed" (though no one in town objects to her odd schedule; they know the reason for it) and bicycles over to the hospital (her driving lessons aren't going too well), and as she passes by store windows decorated with cutout turkeys, pilgrims and autumn leaves, she remembers something else Henry said about Thanksgiving: it's about giving thanks—for freedom. Which she has now. Which Rumple says he has too, because he's finally relieved of the burden of power-lust.

But which Regina has never had. Never, because of her mother and the Deceiver. . . and because of Rumplestiltskin.

"Uhm, Regina?"

The witch looks up in surprise, but quickly pulls her too-cool-for-school face on. "Yes, Lady Belle?"

Ah, a barb. Belle takes the high road and ignores it. "Do you prefer potatoes or stuffing?"

Regina doesn't answer. When Belle goes home that evening to start cooking, she prepares both.

* * *

As the three messengers set up a folding table and five chairs in the hallway, Rumple-Gold sacrifices his opera and rock & roll for holiday music on the radio and Belle and Archie carry the meal down from the good doctor's car. Each time the upstairs door opens, Regina looks up hopefully, then makes a small sound of annoyance when she sees it's only Belle or Hopper.

Rumple-Gold understands her disappointment. She's hoping for Henry. To a lesser degree, he can sympathize: although he has Belle and the messengers, he can't help but wish for one more at the table. To stretch out on a couch after the big meal, Belle's feet in his lap, to loosen his belt and sigh, "I ate too much," and then to glance across the room at his son and ask, "So what'll it be: the college or pro ball?"—that would make his holiday perfect. But unlike Regina, he won't get his hopes up. For all he knows, his son may be halfway around the world, with a family of his own to spend holidays with.

So as Belle, at the head of the folding table, carves the turkey (she learned how on Youtube), Rumple-Gold tries to think of something cheerful to say to Regina. He can't talk about Thanksgiving—that will remind her of Henry. He can't talk about the cooking—that will remind her of Thanksgiving. He can't even talk about football—truthfully, he doesn't know enough about it to start a conversation and he doubts if Regina does either. He ends up talking about the weather, which they can see through their out-facing windows. Regina doesn't answer.

"Regina? White meat or dark?"

Regina doesn't answer, so Belle places some of each on Regina's plate. "Candied yams? Stuffing?" Regina still doesn't answer, so Belle loads the plate and Waldo unlocks the door to Regina's cage.

This is another moment of truth for Belle, one she wasn't prepared for, despite all her plans for this day. She stands in the hallway a long moment, the plate in one hand, a glass of apple cider in the other. Beretrude starts complimenting the lovely centerpiece and Waldo remarks upon the juiciness of the turkey, just to cut through Belle's self-consciousness. Archie rises as if to move to her side, but he doesn't: this moment must be hers. Regina smirks at her enemy's discomfort.

And that's just what Belle needs to find her courage. She raises her chin in defiance and sails into the cell, presenting Regina with a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal. She even remembers to bring Regina a napkin. . . one made with Rumplestiltskin's thread. "I hope you enjoy your dinner, Regina. I have pumpkin pie and whipped cream for dessert."

Helewise then unlocks Rumple's cell so that Belle can deliver his plate—and the messenger suddenly discovers a dust bunny that must be attended to immediately. The other guards and Archie get busy passing vegetables around the table, so no one catches the rule breakers as they share a kiss and a whisper.

When Belle returns, blushing, to the table, Archie seizes an opportunity for a little impromptu therapy. "There's another Thanksgiving tradition many families follow. They go around the table and each person says something they're thankful for."

"A lovely tradition," Beretrude comments.

"A most appropriate way to start the meal," Helewise adds.

"Great. Then shall I begin? I'm grateful that the curse has broken and we all know who we really are." As heads nod in agreement, Archie looks to his left. "Walderan?"

"I'm grateful for gratitude. It helps to bring people together."

Beretrude says, "I'm grateful for the love of the One who created us."

Helewise says, "I'm grateful for lost sheep finding their way home again."

Belle says, "I'm grateful for Rumplestiltskin, of course, and my friends—" her voice drops—"and my father." She brightens. "And grocery stores and cars and television and music CDs and microwave ovens and refrigerators and—" She glances at Regina. "And I'm grateful to be in this new world."

Rumplestiltskin says, "I'm grateful for dust bunnies and ladders. I'm grateful for stories that give kids a reason to spend time with an old man. I'm grateful for my son, wherever he is. But most of all, I'm grateful for Belle."

Archie turns. "Regina?"

Regina grins maliciously. "I'm grateful for sniveling, belly-crawling bootlickers who make my job so much fun."

Archie chastises her, though everyone knows it's pointless. Waldo changes the subject: "Can we eat now? Please?"

They are passing the plates for second helpings when Regina suddenly sets her meal aside, turns to face the wall and bursts into tears. Before anyone, including herself, can realize what she's doing, Belle is grasping the cage's bars and asking Beretrude to let her in. When the door is open, Belle walks in, sits down on the bed beside Regina and offers her a hanky. The women exchange a few words that no one else hears.

Rumple-Gold learns all this later, since he can't see Regina's cage from his. He's not sure whether to be impressed or a little intimidated by the fortitude of his beloved. One thing he knows for sure: he can't match it.

* * *

On the day after Thanksgiving, Bertie is back at work, sporting a haircut. "Better?"

"Better," Rumple-Gold agrees.

"I wish my father thought so. I cut it for him, you know. Because he nagged me about it, like he nags me about everything."

"Pull up a chair, young Robert, and we'll talk."

Bertie pulls up a chair, but corrects the mistake. "Actually, it's not Robert. It's—well, it's a weird name nobody's ever heard of. I was named after an ancestor on my father's side. But everyone calls me Bertie, except Dad."

Rumple pulls up his arm chair. "Parental problems?"

"Yeah, the usual stuff. Classic father-son hassles. I respect him and all. Hell, I admire the guy. Decided when he was a kid he wanted to be a doctor, even though his folks couldn't even afford a juco. He joined the army for the educational benefits, did his hitch, got out and started college. Now he's head of the emergency room at St. Luke's."

"A self-made man."

"Yeah. . . "

"You're a hard-working guy yourself. So where's the problem?"

"Well, he wanted me to follow in his footsteps, you know? He's always had these dreams of opening a father-and-son practice out in Alaska or someplace wild like that."

"His dream is not yours."

"No." Bertie studies his shoes thoughtfully. "I mean, he's proud that I'm working my way through school, but he's disappointed in my career choice. He's even more disappointed that I got married young. He's not too happy that we're having a baby so soon, either. Irresponsible, he says. He says I need to drop out so I can earn a decent living for my kid."

"Kind of hard to earn a decent living these days without a college degree."

"I wish you'd tell him that. My brother, now, that's another story. Micah, he's nineteen and he went right into the army after high school. He's gonna be sent to Afghanistan now as soon as he finishes AIT—he's a medic."

"Ah. And your mother?"

"Oh, she'd be proud of us even if we flipped burgers for a living. She wishes Zoe and I had waited to get married, but she's okay with it. Got any suggestions on how to handle dear old Dad?"

"It's asking a lot, I know, but I'd say, be patient with him. If he's as smart as he seems, he'll realize someday what a fool he is to risk losing his son and grandchild over something as trivial as—you know what? Everything is trivial compared to a child. Perhaps you can be the bigger man and make sure that when he does wise up, it's not too late."

"You sound like someone who wised up."

"Yeah, but for me it was too late."

"Sorry, man."

"So am I. If you can possibly avoid it, don't let things get to a point where you're sorry too. Especially now. Kids and grandpas need each other."

"Yeah. . . for my kid's sake."

"For your father's sake too, even if the hard-ass doesn't realize it yet."


	47. Chapter 47

Forty-Seven

He awakens well before dawn to the sound of retching, and for once, he's not the culprit. "Regina?" he calls softly. If he angles himself just right he can see the nurses' station. With only a desk lamp to light her way—for the prisoners are supposed to be asleep—Emma is working on a budget request. Lost in the numbers, she doesn't hear what's going on in Regina's cage.

When the retching ends, the sobs begin.

He tries again. "Regina? Do you need a doctor?"

Several minutes pass before she regains control and can answer him. "What good would it do?" He hasn't heard her sound so miserable since her wedding day.

"I'm sure Whale could give you something for—"

"For cancer? Is that what you were going to say, Rumple?"

"No, of course not. You're jumping to—"

"I've got it, same as my mother had, same as you had. It's what the fairy dust does to our kind, isn't it?"

"Don't make such assumptions. It's probably just the flu. Do you have a fever?"

She's sniffling.

An awful thought, a dark, evil thought enters Rumple-Gold's mind. He could take advantage of her so-far-unjustified fear. Just a slight nudge, with her so utterly vulnerable, would push her right into—well, would push her right. He could stoke her fear, a little at a time, and then gradually work in mention of Henry, and ere long she'll put the two together: if she'd only allow the messengers to reclaim her soul from the Deceiver, she could mend her relationship with Henry before she dies the same horrid death as her mother. Gold thinks it's a brilliant plan.

Rumple refuses. He's remembering his role in Regina's corruption and he won't add another crime, even one with a noble aim, to his record. Besides, he reasons, the plan probably wouldn't work anyway: Regina's got to come to this decision through her own free will. Deceit is no way to redeem a soul. Case closed.

Rumple-Gold calls for Emma, who calls for the emergency room doctor, and in less that two minutes Regina is whisked upstairs for another examination. It's the sole advantage to being imprisoned in this particular location.

She's kept upstairs for two days. He wonders if Emma has chained her to the hospital bed as she did Estrilda.

He wonders if she really does have the fairy-dust cancer.

* * *

Everyone seems much more relaxed with Regina out of the way. It's a cruel truth not lost on Rumple-Gold: until very recently, most people probably felt the same way about him. He takes the thought to heart.

Bertie has an idea, gleaned from his studies, and Emma has to admit he may have a point. In a normal prison, even the most hardened lifers have access to an exercise yard. That hasn't been possible here; the hospital's patients, visitors and staff would be endangered if two convicted murderers—one of them still with a measure of magical power—walked their grounds, even if handcuffed and under armed guard. Bertie suspects that by not providing some means of exercise for the prisoners, Emma is probably in violation of Maine's prison code. Emma admits that's possible, but she can't exactly fence off the hospital's meditation garden for her prisoners' private use, can she?

Bertie smiles. Oh, yes, she can. While Regina's away, it's the perfect time to test his solution. He admits he got the notion from a tv commercial about a product to control dogs: an invisible fence. Both of Emma's eyebrows shoot up. "No, no, I don't mean we should clamp an electronic collar around the prisoners' necks," Bertie assures her. "What I'm talking about is more like an invisible dome that can be installed and uninstalled with the snap of your fingers. Literally. Your fingers, or Helewise's or Beretrude's or Walderan's." He proceeds to explain, and Emma decides it doesn't sound like such a bad idea, especially considering that in the few months this prison has been in operation, one of her charges has nearly died and now the health of the second is dodgy. Some fresh air and exercise might bring them back to health.

On the first night of Regina's hospitalization, an inch of snow falls. On the second morning of Regina's hospitalization, Emma decides to take a chance on Bertie and Rumple-Gold. The fresh blanket of snow would make a runaway easy to track, should the magic dome not hold or should Rumple-Gold manage to outwit his guards somehow.

Emma doesn't trust her own magic. She's been too busy to ask for lessons or even practice the little she knows. But she does trust her guards; they've never given her cause to doubt. So in the early morning, before the hospital fully awakens, Emma walks into Rumple-Gold's cage with his winter coat and his gloves. She holds them out. "Care to take a stroll?"

He frowns. "What's up, Emma?"

"Just a walk around the yard, that's all. Good for the circulation. Good for the respiration. Fifteen minutes around the meditation garden, then back in. You give me no trouble, we'll do it again tomorrow."

"Yeah." He doesn't know why a lump has suddenly formed in his throat. "I'd like that."

"Cuffed, of course."

"Of course." He buttons his coat and holds out his wrists.

Emma cuffs his right wrist to her left and walks him up the stairs. Helewise trailing, they move casually down the corridor to a side exit. There are just three short steps leading down into the meditation garden, but something about those steps makes him nervous: guilty and giddy with a mistaken sense of freedom. He hesitates at the stop of the stairs. The women give him time to adjust.

A cold wind ruffles his hair and nips at his cheeks and nose. He opens his mouth to draw in as much of the fresh air as his lungs can take, and he holds it in, enjoying the burn, until he has to release the breath. Emma has to smile. She's not much of a fan of winter, but apparently Rumple-Gold is. Or maybe it's just the great outdoors. Emma gives him a moment, then urges him down the steps and into the sleeping garden.

She nods to Helewise, and the guard raises a green-glowing hand. Rumple-Gold watches her intensely, his own hands twitching involuntarily: sympathy magic, he supposes; like a father-to-be's sympathy labor pains. It's going to take a while before he no longer has a physical reaction to magic in the air.

Helewise moves her hand slowly in a wide circle. When she lowers her hand, she and her companions are surrounded by a rainbow shimmer. Rumple-Gold turns about, admiring the work: it's quite beautiful. He knows exactly the spell that created it: a simple barrier spell. And he knows what will happen if any of the three of them tries to pass the barrier: they'll bump against a wall. Simply that.

Emma tests the barrier. She collects a handful of snow, compresses it, shapes it, and when she's satisfied she pitches it—she has a strong fastball, Gold notes—as far as she can, but it splats against the shimmer and breaks apart. Satisfied, she gestures for Rumple-Gold to begin his stroll.

Rumple-Gold isn't in the mood for conversation: it would distract from his enjoyment of the walk. The women don't seem to mind. He walks ahead fifteen feet, then his feet suddenly stop. He has to push himself to move farther. At first he's puzzled by his body's strange reaction, but then he realizes: his cell is fifteen feet by ten. By prison standards, that's quite generous, but still, it takes a toll. His world shrank drastically and suddenly last spring and his body has shrunk to fit it.

He's so quiet and so absorbed in his surroundings that Emma allows him an extra five minutes outside. She doesn't mention it, lest at some point he might try to take advantage of her generosity.

When they take him back inside, Helewise wipes away the barrier. He imagines he can hear her magic working, though he can't really: he just remembers what his magic sounded like in his own head.

Emma takes him back into his cage and unlocks the cuffs. He looks her directly in the eye, his expression conveying more than his words do: "Thank you."

She takes his coat and gloves and locks the cell behind her. "No problem." With a meaningful last glance, she sets his coat onto a coat hook at the nursing station, alongside her own and the guards'. . . and where he can see it.

"Same time tomorrow," she promises.

She keeps her promise.

Regina is not accorded outdoor privileges. Of course she protests and threatens to sue for breach of her civil rights, but since the only lawyer in town is in prison with her, her threat is idle. "Get rid of your magic and then we'll talk," Emma informs Regina.

Belle notices the change right away. "There's color in your cheeks," she comments.

"I had a walk this morning."

There's something different in his voice too, and she comments on that. A sort of peacefulness.

* * *

He awakens to Waldo, once again making his sales pitch to Regina. "Let us fight for you. We'll go this very minute, and we'll chide the dauphin at his father's door. Just say the word and we'll bring you back your soul, I guarantee it."

"My soul is just where it needs to be, in the safekeeping of the King of All Dark Magic. When the time is right, he'll come for me, and we'll turn this world into our own personal playground."

Waldo jerks his chair up and hauls it back to the nursing station, muttering as he leaves.

"It's a lie." Rumple-Gold's voice is still thick with sleep.

Regina makes a startled noise. "Didn't know you were awake."

"You know it's a lie. You may have a little magic left, but you'll never again have power. Your soul may still be in the Deceiver's hands, but you've been abandoned, just as surely as your mother was. You'll never have a relationship with Henry until you start living the truth."

"You have nothing to say to me, you sniveling sell-out." She snorts. "What a fall you took, from the most powerful Dark One in history to this. . .this worm. Sold out for strawberries."

Maybe it's because he's still half-asleep that he allows her barbs to provoke him. He snipes at her: "How did your tests go, Regina? Let me guess: no physical cause for your nausea. Now how do you suppose I know that's what Whale told you? Headaches come next, and in a couple of months nosebleeds and hair loss—huge handfuls of your hair. And then you'll barely be able to get out of bed in the morning because you're so weak. After that, you'll start bleeding under your fingernails. That's how you'll know you're nearing the end."

Immediately he's sorry for his nastiness; he's probably entrenched her even further into her fantasy world. But he's too angry to apologize, so he takes a seat at his wheel and loses himself in his spinning.

* * *

Belle has just learned about Christmas.

Tinsel and ornaments hanging from fir trees; oversized red stockings hanging from mantles. . . and something she discovers she likes even better than the Christmas feast: pretty presents. Lots and lots of pretty presents in colorful paper and curlicue bows.

Belle was wrong about Thanksgiving. Christmas is the perfect holiday. She hires a temp to run the Internet café/bookstore while she goes shopping, shopping and more shopping. When the children aren't around, she reports on her progress to Rumple-Gold: she's bought little gifts—video games or sweaters or candles—for each of the Coon Cats and the security guards. She's bought a music CD for Emma and a pair of gloves for Snow; she's even bought a book for Charming, _Local Government Law in a Nutshell_. She carries a sprig of mistletoe in her purse and when the guards aren't looking she hooks it to one of the bars of Rumple-Gold's cell. Not that she needs the excuse, but it adds to the fun of kissing.

And to prepare for the Christmas feast she will bring to the prison, she launches what she calls "Belle's Twelve Days of Christmas Dishes." Every day, she brings a different treat to the prison: glazed ham, scalloped potatoes, carrot-and-raisin salad, Parker House rolls, fruitcake, marzipan, divinity, eggnog, sugar cookies. Rumple speculates he'll need a bigger belt before this holiday season ends.

* * *

James' landslide win in the mayoral election—he garnered 82% of the vote against school principal Jack Spratt, with a single write-in vote for Regina—has begun to heal the community, Snow reports when she visits Rumple-Gold in early December. Families torn apart by the curse have reformed, sometimes awkwardly; a few citizens have chosen to retain their Storybrooke identities, especially those who had no family in the old world. Gratefully, the town has had Thanksgiving and now Christmas to help lift spirits and distract citizens from the recent confusion of the curse breaking and the anger stirred up by the trial.

Many Storybrookers, including James and Snow, are talking about going home someday. They've even started sketching out the village they would build, one that brings over the best of Storybrooke. When Snow starts to list the modern conveniences they'd carry over, Belle eagerly joins in the conversation.

And then Rumple-Gold starts to wonder, starts to doubt.

On his next morning constitutional, he's still mulling it over. . . moping. . . speculating that the kindest thing for him to do is to chase her away. Better for her to suffer a broken heart for a while, but live free in the new Fairytale Land, than to remain tethered to a prisoner in this foreign land.

He hasn't spoken a word during their fifteen-minute outing, but Helewise has read his features and has grown annoyed anyway. She gives his arm a pinch. "Shame on you, Rumplestiltskin, shame on you."

"What?" he yelps. "What did I do?"

"It's not what you did; it's this sick idea you're toying with. After all she's gone through for you, too. How can you be such an ingrate?"

"No, I'm just thinking what would be best for her."

"How could you possibly think it would be in her best interest if you manipulated her, deceived her, threw her love back in her face?"

"That's not what I—"

"That's exactly what it amounts to. So shame on you, Rumplestiltskin. Straighten up and fly right."

"Yes, ma'am," he replies meekly.

* * *

Regina is vomiting more frequently now. The hospital puts her on a liquid diet.


	48. Chapter 48

Forty-Eight

**A/N. This chapter's dedicated to all the wonderful animals waiting in shelters for their rightful families.**

* * *

A week before Christmas, Mayor James makes his first-ever visit to the prison. When she hears his voice at the top of the stairs, Regina titters. "I knew it. Elect that milquetoast mayor and the whole town goes to pot. Now he's come crawling to me for advice."

She's still having stomach trouble, so she's been extra bitchy of late. She's in for some disappointment, however. James and Bertie pull up chairs midway between Regina's and Rumple's cells. They're holding boxes.

Rumple-Gold smiles pleasantly. "Early Christmas presents?"

"Here's the deal. Yesterday Archie found this litter of kittens on the outskirts of town. Their mother had gotten hit by a car. Well, they're only about two weeks old, so they're pretty high-maintenance, and Doc Thatcher's getting married next week to Becky Sawyer. So Bertie here was telling Emma about these rehab programs, convicts rehabilitating animals. Seems like there's been some success with them. So we put two and two together and got—"

"Early Christmas presents for Regina and me," Rumple-Gold quips.

"Before you jump in: it's a lot of work," James admits. "It'll be about two months 'til they're old enough for adoption. Until then, they need to be kept warm, bottle fed every three hours; they need to be socialized. Doc Thatcher will check in on them once a week."

"Oh, no," Regina protests. "And have cat fur all over my clothes? You've got to be out of your mind."

"Well, I don't mind," Rumple-Gold says. He's embarrassed, now, when he remembers just a few months ago, Gold would have chosen Hugo Boss over kittens; a few years ago, Rumplestiltskin would have used the kittens as guinea pigs for his magic experiments. Not to say that Rumple-Gold is altruistic; indeed, he's still a selfish bastard. But he's one who has come to a point in his life where he feels a need that the imp and the pawnbroker ignored, a need that prison has made it impossible to fulfill: he needs to touch. If he can't hug a child or hold his lady's hand, petting a kitten might help fill the void.

He is, he must acknowledge, an old man, growing sentimental.

James studies him a moment, judging. The former king frowns and an objection sits on his tongue. Rumple-Gold takes umbrage. With a flash of teeth the former mage informs Mayor James, "I was the king of bastards, but I never in three hundred years harmed a baby, human or otherwise."

"They're under surveillance twenty-four seven," Bertie reminds James. "I'll take personal responsibility." There's a darkness in the lad's large eyes that mirrors Rumple-Gold's, as if he too is insulted by the unspoken distrust.

Rumple-Gold feels a little stab of pride. The kid believes in him.

A plaintive mew breaks the stalemate.

James nods once and rises, picking up one of the boxes. Bertie unlocks the door to admit the mayor; he comes in behind with the second box. "All right. There are four of them. Keep them in the box for the next week or so; they don't walk well yet. Bottle feed them every three hours, and I do mean every three. There's a heating pad in their box and some towels and a thermometer in the other box; their box needs to be kept at 90 degrees. Formula and bottles are in the second box. Be extra careful when you feed them so they don't take in too much air. Mix the formula fifty-fifty with hot water, then let it cool to room temperature before you feed. Next week they'll be old enough to use a litter box, so I'll bring one by then. It'll be another three or four weeks 'til we can introduce solid food. They wean at about eight weeks." He sighs, his hands on his hips.

Standing over Rumple-Gold, who sits in his arm chair, James seems quite tall, Rumple admits; quite kingly, considering his humble beginnings. Sometimes Rumple wonders if the timing had been different, if Rumple the village spinner had met James the shepherd, would the animosity between them have been different too? Was it their respective roles that made them enemies, or was it something more fundamental?

"You got all that?" James asks.

"I got it."

James sighs again, this time dismissively. "I'll check in on you tomorrow." What he's really saying is _I'll check up on you_. He opens the box and extracts one of the kittens, a calico. "I think this is a girl, but it's too soon to be sure. She'll bully the others away from the bottle, if you let her. Feed her first and when her belly's full she's less likely to cause trouble."

"As with any of us," Rumple-Gold observes. He accepts the kitten, which fits into the palm of his hand. The animal mews and Rumple-Gold recognizes the voice: this gal was the complainer who got James to change his mind. Rumple-Gold smiles and decides he'll call this one Charming.

James lifts a second kitten from the box, an orange tabby, and as soon as the animal is set into his other hand, Rumple-Gold feels his throat closing, his eyes burning, for this kitten is different. Its bones are smaller, its belly flatter, its fur less plush.

This is the runt.

Immediately he makes her a silent promise: he will devote himself to her protection until she is large enough or tough enough to fight for herself. He will call this kitten Rumple. Though not out loud when anyone else might hear.

James opens his mouth, ready to give special instructions for the care of the runt, but when Rumple-Gold makes eye contact with him, he closes his mouth again, understanding nothing needs to be said.

* * *

Belle arrives at 3:00 on the dot. At 3:01 on the dot, she's in love. She's seated cross-legged on the floor, all four kittens in her lap. She's having trouble hanging onto Charming, who keeps escaping, her little claws digging holes in Belle's arms. The two middle kittens sleep, using each other as pillows and Belle's sweater as a blanket. The runt tries to hide under her elbow.

In a low voice he confesses his names for the kittens. The middle kittens, nearly identical in size and coloring, are Belle and Bae. "That one is Rumple."

"Oh!" Her eyes widen. She realizes he's revealing something about himself. "Then when he's ready, he's coming home with me."

He doesn't correct her mistake in identifying Rumple's gender. He smiles and the smile stays with him long after Belle leaves, long after the Coon Cats have come and played with the kittens and gone back out into the snow. He's still smiling at midnight, 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. when he has to wake up to feed the kittens. He doesn't mind the trouble. He doesn't mind a bit.

The kids are crazy for the kittens. Snowmen and snowball fights tempt them, but the Coon Cats feel a responsibility to visit "their" kittens every day. Grace has already claimed kitten Bae, who will move with her as she moves between her two families. It will hurt just a little, Rumple-Gold thinks, when Bae is adopted away from him, but that's the nature of kittens and children. . . and prisoners.

The kids bring little Christmas gifts for the kittens: bits of yarn, balls of aluminum foil, soft cloth for the kittens to sleep on. These gifts come directly from the children; nothing is bought, so no child need feel left out because of the lack of money. To the kittens, a stick with a string attached to it is every bit as acceptable a gift as the finest toy money can buy. Before running to the prison at 3:00, the children run to the library for books about kitten care and cat psychology. They learn to recognize the meaning of a raised tail or a whisker twitch, and they report their findings to Rumple-Gold so that he can be a better provider.

Kylie, daughter of Bo Peep and John Shoemaker, documents the kittens' growth with weekly illustrations. She presents the best of her artwork to Rumple-Gold: it depicts him sitting on the floor beside the children, with the kittens between them. She has neglected to draw in the iron bars that separate the prisoner from his young visitors.

* * *

On the night before the day before Christmas, sometime after lights out, Regina calls softly to her neighbor. "You know, I was thinking, this time of year they don't shed much, do they?"

"No, they don't shed much."

"I could take them off your hands tomorrow. Give you a break."

"You'd be doing me a favor. I haven't been able to get much spinning done since they arrived; I wanted to work on something for Belle for Christmas."

"Yeah. I suppose it's not much different that an infant, is it? I used to get up for Henry's midnight feedings, when his nanny had the night off."

Rumplestiltskin falls silent, pondering everything he missed out on in Bae's first year, because of the war.

"I suppose Emma will allow Henry to adopt one of them." Her voice is wistful. "That's what I would've done, anyway." But they both know she wouldn't have. "Henry's always had a soft spot for animals. I used to take him to stables sometimes. He did more petting than riding, though. Guess he didn't inherit the equestrian gene." Rumple wonders if she's referring to her own genes, which Henry wouldn't have inherited at all, or James'.

He grants her the courtesy of a compliment. "You were quite the horsewoman, in the old country."

"Yeah," she sighs. "Those days are long gone."

He offers her a slight nugget. She's overhead his conversations anyway, so she knows now who Bae was. Is. "When my son was five," he begins, "we were raising sheep. He asked me one day if he could have one for a pet. I assumed he meant a lamb, so I agreed. The next thing I knew, he'd tossed a rope around the bellwether's neck and was riding her like a pony. She knocked him off repeatedly, bit him several times, but he got right back on. Stubbornest, bravest kid in the village."

"You miss him." It's not a question.

"You never stop being a parent, I guess."

She begins to sob in great, messy gulps. Grieving, he realizes, for the loss of her son. He understands the feeling.

* * *

Christmas has arrived, and so have Archie and Belle and enough food to feed an ogre army. The guards, except for Bertie, who's splitting his holiday between his parents' home and his in-laws', pull on their boots and coats and gloves as soon as Archie drives up, and they prepare to unload his overloaded Honda Civic. But before they do, Belle insists they unwrap the Christmas gifts she's brought them, and it's soon obvious why: the gifts are woolen winter scarves. "Rumple made the yarn and I knitted the scarves," she says proudly.

Properly wrapped now, they hike out to the Civic and unload. Unable to make up her mind about the perfect Christmas dishes, Belle has cooked everything: a spiral ham and a turkey, mashed potatoes and candied yams, carrot-and-raisin salad and ambrosia, fresh-baked bread and dinner rolls. Her pieces de resistance: four kinds of pie.

Emma, busy with her own family, won't be in today, but she's left word of her Christmas gift to the prisoners and the guards: she's arranged for the doctors' cafeteria, which is closed today, to be the site of Belle's feast. They will be locked in with Helewise's boundary spell, of course, for the duration, and the prisoners must be bound by the ankle to the dining table, but it doesn't matter. They will be out of their cages, they will be sitting down at a dining table with a picture-window view, they will pass the dishes without hindrance, they will be able to see each other's faces without the interruption of iron bars. And Belle and Rumple will hold hands and kiss under mistletoe.

The meal is eaten slowly, every bite and every moment savored. Regina's the exception: she's unable to keep solids down, so she sips soup. She's in despair until Archie sets a small, wrapped box beside her plate.

"What's this?" she asks.

"Look at the tag," he answers.

She does, and then she begins to cry and Beretrude escorts her to the ladies'.

"What happened?" Helewise asks.

Archie reveals, "It's from Henry."

More gifts are opened: books, music, trinkets to make the prison more comfortable. Rumple and Belle have even knitted a scarf for Regina. Next year, Belle promises, her knitting skills will have improved sufficiently to allow her more selection. Rumple's gift to Belle is a shawl he's woven, robin's egg blue. "Just like my old dress," she says, and he's pleased she remembers: she was wearing that dress on the day he first fell in love with her.

There's one last gift, also from Emma: after the meal is finished, Rumple and Belle are permitted to walk in the meditation garden together, under Helewise's magic dome and Waldo's watchful eye. They kiss as the sun sets. It's the first time in almost a year that they've been able to hold each other.

* * *

When Regina awakes this morning, her nose is bleeding.

* * *

As basements often do, the prison tends to hold in the cold. As the temperatures drop outside, the prisoners and the guards add extra layers of clothes and Snow hauls in space heaters. Still, Rumple-Gold is worried about the kittens. He checks the heating pad periodically to make sure it's still working and wraps the box in blankets at night. Kitten Charming is thriving; Kitten Belle and Kitten Bae are growing and learning; but Kitten Rumple, with her frail bones and sparse coat, struggles. He feeds her separately and she eats heartily if he holds her on his lap, but if he sets her down she seems to lose her appetite. Unlike her sisters and brother, she seldom meows or even mews, but her little purr motor runs nonstop.

During the day he tucks her inside his shirt so she can benefit from his body heat; he learns to ignore her claws that puncture his skin and his shirts. At night he wraps her in wool before tucking her into the box. To both his relief and his dismay, she never manages to wriggle out of the wool; whether it's strength or courage she lacks, he can't tell.

He cares far more than he should. It is, after all, just an animal with a lifespan of 20 years at best. He knew from the first her odds were low. Somewhere along the line he's become so invested in her future that he needs for her to survive. Not only survive, but kick her biggest sister's butt.

Doc Thatcher drops in the day after Christmas for a "quick look-see." He congratulates Rumple-Gold and Regina on their accomplishment: three out of four is quite an achievement, considering the work that went into the project. When Rumple-Gold demands to know what of the fourth, Thatcher tries to be kind. It's probably best if she doesn't survive. She would always be sickly, always be the omega of any litter. Not strong enough to be a suitable companion for a child.

Upon hearing this write-off of a life, Rumple-Gold sets his jaw. Whatever it costs—money, time, worry, prayer—he'll pay the price. This animal must live.

He continues to bottle-feed her every three hours, long after her sisters and brother have progressed to solid food. He talks to her and doesn't care who knows it. He tries to build her stamina by lying on the floor to play with her. When, one by one, the other kittens pass Thatcher's examinations and move on to their forever homes (Kitten Bae to Grace, Kitten Belle to Granny, Kitten Charming to Henry), he keeps Kitten Rumple with him. She sits on his shoulder as he spins, never disturbing his work; she sleeps on a cushion at the foot of his bed when he sleeps. She purrs and purrs but never meows.

Until the day Thatcher, with a raised eyebrow, pronounces her ready for adoption. "You're one stubborn guy, Rumplestiltskin," the vet says. "She'll never be strong, but she'll live."

"It takes more than strength to survive," Rumple-Gold mutters.

That afternoon, when visiting hours end, it's time for Kitten Rumple to go to her new home. Belle tucks her into a tote bag, sneaks a quick kiss, then turns for the stairs. And that's when Kitten Rumple meows for the first time. It's not the plaintive or helpless cry Rumple-Gold expected: it's a demanding, insulted protest, the complaint of an alpha who's not getting what she thinks she deserves.

Rumple-Gold cracks up.

"Let me have one of your shirts," Belle decides. "Maybe she'll feel better if she has something that smells like you."

"She's going to an entire house that smells like me." But he surrenders the shirt anyway.


	49. Chapter 49

Forty-Nine

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were Tori Amos' "Carry" and "Flavor," the mesmerizing videos for which can be found on Youtube.**

* * *

Bertie's back from his Christmas holiday. He checks in on Regina, who's still having trouble keeping food down and still experiencing occasional nosebleeds. Regina shares no information, and in fact, keeps back from the bars of her cell, her face turned away, so Bertie can't see her—unless he spies on her with the surveillance cameras. He draws up his chair to her cell and spends a good fifteen minutes trying to get her to talk. When she won't answer his questions concerning her health, he tries to get her to talk about anything at all—the Christmas dinner, the weather, the kittens—in hopes of maneuvering the conversation back around to the topic he's really concerned about. It's no use. Regina's been at this game a whole lot longer than he has. She simply twists his questions around so that she's the one pumping him for information. Not that she's really interested; she wrote him off long ago as powerless and therefore uninteresting, too guileless to even be entertaining.

He may be an innocent but he's not naïve. Realizing he's been manipulated but also realizing he hasn't the skill to manipulate her back, he gives up on her, slides his chair over to Rumple-Gold.

"Hey, Bertie," Rumple-Gold greets him.

"Hey, Rumplestiltskin. I hear you had a nice Christmas."

"Quite nice, thank you. Belle saved you a slice of fruitcake."

"Thanks, that's awfully nice of her. She's a very considerate person."

"She is, indeed. And how was your holiday?"

"Productive. I got a first draft of my thesis finished. It's about animal rehabilitation programs."

"Appropriate choice. We've enjoyed having the kittens around—both of us have, never mind what Regina does or doesn't tell you. Belle and I have decided to adopt one of them." Rumple-Gold exchanges a meaningful look with his guard. Both realize he chose his phrasing purposefully: "Belle and I," not "Belle." As if he and Belle share a home, or will someday. Neither of them can decide just how to take that: is the convict deceiving himself?

"Yeah, I heard you're adopting the smallest one." Tactfully, Bertie avoids using the word _runt_. "I'm glad. Doc Thatcher thought she might not be adoptable."

"Well, she is," Rumple-Gold snaps. "She's the best of the bunch." Then he shakes his head. "Sorry. Anyway, thanks for thinking of this arrangement. Even the kids benefited from it. You know, Bertie, you're pretty good at this job."

"Yeah, I think I could be." Despite the compliment, Bertie is frowning.

And Rumple-Gold knows why. "You said before your father doesn't approve of your career choice. Why not? You seem to have a calling for it."

Bertie sighs. "He's a real hardliner, you know? In his world, you're either right or you're wrong; no in between. He says the set up we have here is 'coddling the criminal.' A waste of taxpayer money. A waste of my life, when I could be doing work that will accomplish something. 'Once a criminal, always a criminal,' that's his motto. People can't change, especially those who've—"

"Who've done the kinds of things I've done."

"But I wish he could meet you and Regina. He won't even listen, though, when I talk about what we're doing here. He just can't see that it's possible that a person who's killed could say anything worth listening to."

Rumple-Gold rests his elbows on his knees. "Yeah. I spent the first part of my life thinking I had nothing worth saying and the second part acting like I didn't give a damn. Neither one solved any problems for me. Listen, Bertie: Don't let him get you down. You made the right choice. Your father will see that, one of these days."

"I wish he'd see it now!" Bertie growls. "Zoe's due to deliver next month. It'd be nice if my father showed a little interest in his first grandchild, even if he can't respect me and Zoe."

Rumple-Gold sits back in his arm chair and ponders. He knows half a dozen spells that would help this situation. None of them can force a father to love his child, of course, but any of those spells could help the man to see what he's missing out on. If he still had his magic, Rumple would begin with—

But he doesn't. That's all in the past. But he does still have both Rumplestiltskin's perceptiveness and Gold's way with words. "Bertie, what's your father's name?"

"He's got another one of those archaic names that no one's ever heard of, so he goes by Bill."

"Can you get me an envelope and a stamp?"

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm going to write Dr. Bill Weaver a letter."

Bertie thinks about this a moment, his expression shifting from doubt to determination. "Yeah, why not."

After Bertie's gone, Rumple-Gold returns to his spinning. Sometimes he wonders about himself. First Helewise, then the Coon Cats, then the kittens, now Bertie—he's starting to care, starting to want to do things for people. He's not the same Rumplestiltskin or Gold any more.

* * *

"Mr_rrrowww_!"

"Rumplestiltskin! Come back here!"

Heads snap at this strange disturbance on the stairs leading into the prison, interrupting Rumple-Gold's spinning and Beretrude and Regina's blackjack game. Beretrude drops her cards and stands—giving Regina the chance to turn the cards over, ascertain their ranks, then switch out her own weak hand with a better one from the deck. When Beretrude has identified the source of the disturbance—it's only Belle, paying her daily visit—and has returned to the table, Regina is smiling innocently, in the security of knowing she now holds the winning hand.

Rumple-Gold, hearing Belle shout his name, drops his spindle.

As hurried footfalls clatter down the stairs, a ball of orange streaks down the hallway, stretches itself like so much Silly Putty to pass through the bars of Rumple-Gold's cell, bounces onto his knee, then launches itself onto his shoulder. Before he has time to blink, a hairy face with blue eyes is rubbing itself against his jaw, then his shoulder is repeatedly punctured by tiny kneading claws.

"Rumplestiltskin! You ornery little—"

He fancies he can see steam leaking out of Belle's ears, never mind the fact that her head is wrapped in the robin's egg blue shawl. He smiles hopefully. "Belle, dear one? Did I do something wrong?"

"Her!" Belle points at the ball of orange fur now balanced precisely, half in front,half in back, across Rumple-Gold's shoulder. He glances at his shoulder and finds the furry face is smiling.

"She was a perfect angel all morning at the bookstore." Belle taps her booted foot. "She stayed away from the computers, she kept her nose out of the cookie jar, she didn't try to escape when customers opened the door. But I no sooner got her into the hospital than she started meowing and trying to jump out of my tote bag."

"Sorry. I'm sure she'll learn better when she gets used to the routine." For Kitten Rumple has been living with Belle—and going almost everywhere she goes, except for the grocery store—for barely a week now.

Belle clucks her tongue. "These kids today. No patience whatsoever." She chuckles.

* * *

Tomorrow is New Year's Eve. In this world, it's celebrated as a time for putting the past behind us and finding joy in the possibility of starting fresh. In the streets of Storybrooke, it will be celebrated for the first time. For the first time, with the breaking of the curse, the New Year has meaning.

Lying back on his on bed, Rumple-Gold realizes he's had more fresh starts than most. In his long life, he's played a great many roles, most of them not of his own choosing, and with each reset of his life he's lost more than he gained. Until now, he's learned to dread fresh starts. This year may be different. By examining the truths of each of his lives, by finding something worth keeping in each of those selves, and then weaving those lives together so none of them will be lost to time, he has become a new person, neither the runt nor the cripple nor the alien nor the tyrant. He has become and is becoming a man he rather likes.

Helewise's soft voice threads its way into his reverie. "The Master sends a New Year's greeting, Rumplestiltskin: 'When you turned yourself in to the law, you demonstrated a level of courage few before you have exhibited, not the boldest of dragon slayers, not the bravest of generals. Turn that courage now to faith, for you're on the right path. You are a new creature, a healer to your village and a servant to love, and for your people you will great things.'"

He rests his head against his pillow, trying to absorb it all. "Thank you."

He closes his eyes and dreams of all those Rumplestiltskin and Gold have loved and love still.

* * *

He draws the spinning bench up to his arm chair. He positions the sheaf of paper on the bench, grasps the pen. He doesn't know how to begin: he's never written a personal letter before, not ever, only business correspondence. He watches the white page, waits for words to appear.

"31 December 2012

Storybrooke, ME

Dear Dr. Weaver,

I am one of the prisoners whom your son guards and whose lives his work has affected. More importantly, I am a father. Most importantly, I am a father who in a moment of cowardice made a choice that I have spent a lifetime trying to correct, the sort of choice that once made, can't ever be recalled. It's as a father that I ask you to consider what I have to say.

Every day of your life and his, you have the choice all over again to start fresh with your son, to see him as others see him, to see him as the man he is and will be. Every day you have the choice to respect him or condemn him, encourage or degrade him, love him or push him away. For now, you have that choice every day, but if you continue to make the wrong choice, you will someday lose it altogether.

Your son deserves your respect, your encouragement and your love. Those things are his birthright. If you withhold them, you will lose him. Listen to him; you may be surprised by how much he can teach you. Love him while you have him with you; that won't always be the case. I can tell you from personal experience that when a father loses his child, he loses the best part of himself.

For your grandchild's sake, if not your own, hold onto your son while he's still willing to hold onto you.

R. Gold"

* * *

By order of Emma, lights are allowed to remain on past ten this night. By order of Emma, two visitors are permitted a brief late-night visit, so that the prisoners may welcome the new year with a loved one: Belle, of course, though not Kitten Rumple this time, who has been left sleeping on her master's bed in the big pink house. . .

And Henry.

Conversation stops. Through the bars, Rumple-Gold and Belle hold hands and hold their breath, watching, sharing an unspoken thought: Don't screw this up, Regina.

Henry approaches the cage. His eyes are wary but wide. He and Emma wear pointy hats. He offers one to Regina and she places it lopsided on her head.

Regina's voice shakes. "Henry." It's all she can manage to say.

The boy holds out a gift: a bouquet of daffodils. The plastic that wraps the stems bears a familiar logo: Game of Thorns. "Happy New Year . . ." He glances over his shoulder at Emma, who's sitting at the nurses' station, watchful but out of the way. He comes closer so that Regina can take the flowers, and he adds, "Mom." As soon as Regina has the flowers, he steps back, out of her reach.

"Daffodils," Belle whispers to Rumple-Gold, who can barely tell a tulip from a petunia, "mean forgiveness and new beginnings."

"Happy New Year, Henry," Regina replies.

The former queen and the boy stand there looking at each other until outside several small explosions break the silence. Still holding hands, Belle and Rumple-Gold turn to an exterior window to watch fireworks light the clouded sky.

Emma appears at Belle's elbow. She punches the keypad hastily, explaining, "Hurry up! It's almost time." Drawing the door open, she ushers Belle inside.

Belle gapes. "I can—?"

"Hurry up!" Emma gives her a little push. "Five—four—"

Rumple-Gold pulls Belle into his arms, takes her mouth with his as Emma is still counting. "Three—two—"

"I love you, Belle!"

"I love you, Rumple! Happy New—"

"One! Happy New Year!"

Waldo distributes party blowouts, metallic noisemakers and plastic flutes of white grape juice. Regina accepts everything and joins in the noisemaking. With a slight grimace, Rumple-Gold allows Belle to strap one of those pointy hats onto his head—but he makes her buy the privilege first, with a kiss. Emma turns on a radio and of course "Auld Lang Syne" is playing: she holds out her hands to Henry and they stumble around the prison in a halting box step. Rumple-Gold and Belle press together for a snuggly two-step until, too soon, the song ends and "Celebration" takes its place.

With a sigh Emma snaps the radio off. "Sorry, Belle, I got to get Henry back home now."

Belle removes the silly hat from her beloved's head and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. "See you tomorrow, my love."

"Goodnight, mom," Henry says to Regina as Emma leads him out.

And then the party favors are collected, the prison tidied, and the lights turned out for the night.

Few would agree, but Rumple-Gold considers himself a lucky man.

* * *

In the middle of the night, Regina screams.

Rumple-Gold scrambles to his bars as the lights snap on and Waldo comes running. "What is it? What's wrong, Regina?" The Bread Man sounds as though he'll have a heart attack himself.

"I felt his claws around my neck!" she gasps.

Waldo punches in the code to unlock her door. Rumple-Gold can't see them, but he can hear the guard soothe her in quiet, reassuring words: she's safe. She's unhurt.

There's no bogey man in the closet, Rumple thinks, no monsters hiding in the prison—except himself and her.

Rumple barks at her, "Whose claws, Regina? Whose claws grabbed you?"

Regina's voice shudders. "My master's."

"If you're referring to the Deceiver, he's not your master. I know you, Regina: above all else, you're a survivor. You know which is the winning side, so give up your power and join it."

Waldo calls out to him, "Rumplestiltskin, please! You're not helping by scaring her."

"Regina! Are your fingernails bleeding yet?"

Waldo rushes out of Regina's cage, forgetting to close the door behind him; Regina is not so foolish as to attempt to take advantage of that omission, however. Besides, she's still wrapped up in her nightmare.

Waldo shakes the bars of Rumple's cage as though he would shake the offender himself. "I told you, be quiet! You're making matters worse."

Rumple shakes his head. "Ask her, Walderan. Ask her your question. _Now_."

The messenger seems puzzled. "What—"

Regina interrupts with another shriek. "My nails are bleeding! Oh, God, I'm dying!"

Rumple shouts at her, "Send the messengers now, Regina! If you want to live to see Henry tomorrow, send the messengers to Hell tonight!"

Waldo now understands, but before he can draw in a breath, an army in white appears behind him. They bear ancient weapons blazing in flame. Waldo returns to Regina, his hands clasped around a bow, a quiver slung across his shoulder. "Ask us to fight for you! Say the word, Regina, just say the word!"

Rumple-Gold gapes at the silent warriors. They glow so brightly he can't look into their faces; he can only watch their feet. He is dismayed when recognizes Helewise's and Beretrude's shoes. The prison is so quiet he can hear his own desperate breathing.

In a small voice Regina begs, "Please."

The warriors vanish. Only the smallest is left behind. She seems no older than Henry. She closes Regina's door and waits in the hallway, her back to the prisoners, her head bowed.

Rumple-Gold sits down on his bench. He watches the young messenger for some clue from her posture as to what's happening; nothing is revealed. He rises and stares out his window into the snow. _Keep them safe_. He worries unnecessarily: there's nowhere the messengers can go that will take them out of the Master's protection. But he worries nonetheless because he's just a human.

Morning comes and the young messenger trudges up the stairs to fetch the prisoners' breakfast. This gives Rumple an idea. "Regina! Are you hungry?"

She's a long time in answering, but when she does, her voice is hopeful. "I am."

He takes this as a sign that the messengers are winning. "What's happening?" Rumple-Gold pleads as the young messenger presents his breakfast. "Are they all right?" He hasn't slept, so his throat is as scratchy as his unshaven jaw.

"War" is all she says before retreating to the nurses' station.


	50. Chapter 50

Fifty

**A/N. It's going to get sad again, then we'll climb back up to a very happy place and end there. Rumple's earned it. The spirit guides for this chapter were Sting's "Why Should I Cry for You" and "Fragile."**

* * *

"What's your name?" Rumple-Gold feels a need to talk, to connect; it's all he can do, caged here as he is while friends lay their lives on the line in the bowels of Hell for the sake of a monster he helped to create. He stares into his coffee cup, aching for the magic that once allowed him glimpses of the future, and then he imagines what Helewise would say if she saw him in this state: "Have faith. We're on the right path."

The young messenger gives him a perplexed look. "I'm Adela. Do you not know me, Rumplestiltskin?" She's what used to be called a "slip of a girl": petite, small-framed, delicate features except for her large brown eyes. He guesses her age to be thirteen or fourteen, but of course age has no meaning for the likes of these.

He shakes his head slowly. He's forgotten many of the details of his deals—well over ten thousand of them, so who could blame him?—but he's good with names and this one doesn't come to mind. But he has more pressing matters. "Can you see what's happening?"

"Yes."

She's confoundedly irritating in her closed-mouthedness. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Many. Many are dead, many wounded."

"Helewise? Beretrude? Walderan?"

She turns away from him. "It will be a long battle."

The upstairs door opens and when he glances toward the messenger again she's gone. Bertie tromps down the stairs, shaking snow off his wool coat. As he hangs up his Christmas-gift scarf, he frowns. "Where's Walderan? He was supposed to be on shift last night."

"An emergency. Regina got sick. He's. . .he went for help."

Bertie hurries to Regina's cage. "Regina? Do you need a doctor?"

She answers around a mouthful of breakfast. "I'm better."

Frustrated, Rumple-Gold plops on his bed. He picks up the tapestry the Master made for him and runs his hand across it; he can feel Belle's lifeline beating strong in it, he can feel Bae's. He has no inkling of whether his guardian-friends are alive. He returns the tapestry to his nightstand.

"Adela, please, show me," he asks.

An iPad appears his lap. "Adela?" he asks, but the messenger doesn't appear or answer. He's not sure what he's supposed to do, so with no better idea he fumbles around for the power button and pushes it. The iPad sparks immediately and a smoky image appears on the monitor.

Rumple-Gold shudders involuntarily and he feels a compulsion to run, for he knows this scene, he knows what it sounds and smells and tastes like, he's lived it, every detail of every moment is burned into his DNA. It's war.

Swords, bows and shouts in a tongue much more ancient than any he's heard are raised; shields and bodies fall. He recognizes the field upon which blood has been splattered: Estrilda took him there, when he followed her to Hell. He remembers it as green and rolling and completely fake. Now, instead of sheep and wildflowers, the field is dotted with broken bodies. His cellular memory reminds him of the unbearable sadness he'd felt when he had first looked upon such a scene and had realized that most of those mangled bodies would never be identified.

His forehead breaks out in a cold sweat as he remembers why: ogres.

Lucifer has ogres fighting for him, alongside the demons, trolls and sorcerers. An army of thousands of the blackest souls in creation, against a dozen of the Master's messengers, pure and kind souls whose lives are spent healing and counseling. Rumple-Gold jumps to his feet and bellows, "Adela!"

Bertie comes running. "Rumplestiltskin? What's wrong?"

He hasn't the patience right now to make up a lie, and Bertie certainly couldn't handle the truth. The lad has been informed about the strange community he now serves; it took him several weeks, Rumple-Gold was told, to accept the fact that magic exists in Storybrooke. To try to help him to believe and understand what his co-workers are, and what danger they are now exposed to, is a leap too far. Rumple wishes he had just a little taste of magic left so he could send Bertie back to the sanity of the classroom. But then, if he had a taste of magic, he'd probably send himself to Hell right now instead.

"Nothing, Bertie, nothing. Just, ah, I was watching a war movie and I got a little carried away." He forces his lips to turn up. "_Braveheart_. Rooting for the home team, you know?"

"Sure. Say, I thought I detected a trace of an accent in your voice. Where in Scotland are you from?"

Rumple-Gold's foot begins to tap impatiently; he forces it to be still. "Bertie, could we chat another time? I don't want to miss the rest of the movie."

"Sure, I don't blame ya. That scene where they hike their kilts up—"

"No spoilers, please. Haven't gotten to that part yet."

"Sorry!" Bertie clamps his hand over his mouth. "We'll talk later." He returns to the nurses' station.

Rumple-Gold turns, intending to plop into his chair, but instead he finds Adela standing in his closet. He thrusts his finger at the scene flickering on the iPad and hisses, "It's not fair! A dozen of them against a thousand demons. He's got to _do_ something! They're getting slaughtered!"

"You see only a dozen?" She urges him to sit so she can peer over his shoulder. "Look again."

Cursing under his breath, he stares into the monitor. And then he realizes he's been assessing the situation superficially, for when he looks closer he finds that combat is taking place not just messenger to demon, but also demon to demon, ogre to ogre, witch to witch. "I don't understand. What's happening?"

Adela smiles. "We prefer converting to killing."

"What?"

She leans over his shoulder and taps the screen so that the monitor zooms in on a pair of combatants: an ogre and Waldo. The ogre is swinging a mace as big an oak tree and it appears Waldo will be felled, but the young messenger doesn't flinch: he sets an arrow, raises his bow, takes aim and lets the arrow fly. It's a perfect hit, directly in the eye, and the ogre stumbles backwards, landing on a squadron of demons and flattening them. But Waldo isn't finished yet: he leaps onto the ogre's chest, drawing a fresh arrow, and with his bow raised he shouts, "Die for the Deceiver or live for the Morning Star! Your choice, Mowego!"

In Rumplestiltskin's time, the ogres' language skills were pitifully primitive; he learns now that time has not improved their speech. Swatting helplessly at the arrow that pierces his eye, the ogre whimpers in a voice that yet rumbles like a rockslide, "Live."

Waldo returns his arrow to the quiver, bends and with a grunt yanks the arrow from the ogre's eye. He kneels to touch the ogre's bleeding eye, and his hand glows gold. When he withdraws his hand, the blood is gone, the damage repaired.

He hops down from the ogre's chest and steps back a few paces. "Pick up your mace, then, Mowego, and fight for us!"

The ogre hauls himself to his feet, retrieves his weapon and rejoins the fray—smashing demon and ogre skulls. The creature's wrist bands have changed color, from brown to white, a sort of uniform change, Rumple supposes.

Rumple-Gold flicks the screen with a fingertip, zooming in and out and panning from side to side until he finds the face he's searching for. Helewise is trapped between two trolls, at least he thinks she is, until she raises her arms and attacks both beasts simultaneously, her swords slashing swaths of fire across the trolls' chests. As they crumple at her feet, she sets the points of her swords at their throats. "Die for the Deceiver or live for the Morning Star! Your choice, Docomi, Stowli!"

She knows their names. Waldo, too, knows the name of his opponent. Rumplestiltskin admires this special knowledge, a power beyond any he ever possessed. When the trolls beg for their lives and are drafted into to the Morning Star's army, Rumple-Gold eases back into his chair. Perhaps he has underestimated. . . .

Although among the broken bodies littering the meadow are many clad in white.

* * *

Throughout the morning and into the early afternoon he's fixed to the iPad, watching the three messengers he counts as friends and the many he hasn't met as they fight, usually conquering and converting, sometimes killing when the enemy will not surrender. They are as bold as Charming, as clever as Snow, as brave as Belle—and as efficient as Red and as ruthless as Rumple in their killing. He comes to fear them just as he fears for them. He remembers his time in Hell, the trade Lucifer offered him: Bae in exchange for his soul. Had he accepted the bargain, he wonders, would he be lying broken on the wildflowers too, or would he have capitulated—or would he have run away?

Belle arrives with Kitten Rumple, and he hastily explains what's happening, showing her the battle scene. Gentle though she is, she with her father led her duchy through a war as gruesome as this one, so she is not horrified by the images he shares with her, only fearful for her friends. When he explains the reason for the battle, her mouth tightens and her eyes narrow and cut to the other prison cell. "Regina," she spits, the name vinegar on her tongue. "They're dying for her. And there she sits, doing nothing while they die."

"They're not dying," he argues, insisting she look at the monitor again, as Adela did for him this morning. "They're winning."

"The selfish bitch," Belle fumes. "This was not necessary. She saw what blind devotion to the Deceiver did to her mother. Why couldn't she see then where she was headed? You gave her an opening; you brought the Deceiver here; the messengers had him boxed off—she could've disclaimed him then. Instead she let—"

Regina's voice breaks in. "You're right, Belle. I thought I was special. I thought I was destined to rule and all the rest of you were meant to serve me or be crushed. Waldo and the others are paying for my self-delusions. That should be me there, not them."

Adela appears at Belle's elbow. "It's what they were created for. To serve the Master by serving you, it's what we are destined for. But you must put this aside for now; the children are coming."

She's right. The upstairs door clangs open and a half-dozen children barrel down the stairs, shouting out greetings to Bertie, Belle and Rumple-Gold and the kitten. They glance warily at Regina as they run past her cell; only Henry has a greeting for her. They drop to the floor and as Grace distributes granola bars (her papa having vetoed the consumption of Apollo bars), Kylie puts in the daily request: "Today will you tell us about Snow and the wolf?"

Rumple-Gold exchanges a glance with Belle. He glances at the iPad; she takes his meaning and cocks her head. If he wishes, she will hustle the kids back up the stairs, take them over to Sara's Ice Cream Shoppe. He glances at the children, who are talking quietly among themselves; Henry is telling Grace that the stories his gran tells him about the old days are always inspiring and sweet, because she doesn't want to risk upsetting him. His gramps' stories have plenty of action but little description or reflection. That's why, he says, he prefers to come to Rumplestiltskin for his Fairytale Land history lessons: he thinks Rumplestiltskin's stories are probably closer to the truth.

Rumple-Gold sets the iPad aside. However it started, this storytelling business has become more than an entertainment. It matters. He draws up his chair, and Bertie draws up a chair too, and Belle leans against the wall with a smile. The kitten on his shoulder, he begins, "Ah, now, the story of Snow and the wolf is all about conquering one's fear and prejudices to find kindness and friendship in unlikely places." Like prisons, he thinks, or like Hell.

* * *

At 5:00 Emma arrives to relieve Bertie, the children and Belle go home, and supper arrives. Regina has gone silent. Rumple-Gold pokes at his food until Emma asks if he's getting sick again, and then Regina interrupts, telling Emma what's going on.

The sheriff sets her hands on her hips. "In Hell. All three of them. Fighting demons for your soul." Her tone is typically Emma: skeptical, impatient to cut through the bull. He knows she needs this: after all the blows her view of reality has suffered in the past year, she needs to cling to the few fragments that are left. Neither Regina nor Rumple answers her; she learns best through experience.

And it comes in spades. Long after lights out, while Emma is leaning back in her roller chair and half-dozing her way through the newspaper, while Regina is pacing, despite Emma's promptings of "Pipe down," while Rumple-Gold is frantically stabbing and swiping his fingers at the iPad but finding nothing but Net—while the prisoners and their guard wait, there suddenly is a crash and the entire basement fills with light, not electric or natural light, but something cleaner. Emma crashes to her feet and draws her gun, searching for the source of the disturbance. It arrives, thrashing and cursing and shouting, in the center of the prison, in arm's length of Regina's cell: the Deceiver himself, his arms bound behind his back, kneels at the feet of thirteen weapon-wielding warriors of his mortal enemy. He roars demands for release and threats of horrible punishment, but the bloodied, bruised and exhausted messengers grant no quarter.

"What the hell?" Emma runs forward, gun ready, but she has no idea who to shoot until she sees the monster on his knees. Him, she knows: she plants her feet firmly and holding the gun with both hands takes aim, waiting for trouble.

Rumple-Gold searches faces and cries out, "Helewise!"

The Black Star twists his head to the left and sneers. "Ah, Rumplestiltskin, my son. How lovely to see you again. Be a good lad and dispose of these encumbrances, won't you?" He wiggles his fingers to indicate the chains binding him.

Rumple-Gold ignores him. "Where's Helewise?"

Beretrude and Waldo exchange a glance, then Waldo edges over to Rumple's side, his eyes and his arrow still fixed on the new prisoner. "She didn't make it. I'm sorry, Rumplestiltskin."

The Black Star smacks his lips. "I had her for lunch. She was delicious."

Rumple yanks with all might on the door of his cage, but of course he can't break the lock. Even as his blood rises, he understands the violence he's blindly striking for is wrong, pointless—and on a practical level, impossible. Only one can destroy the Black Star, and that vengeance will be enacted in the Master's time, not Rumplestiltskin's. . . . though Rumple now wishes wildly that he was still the eternal-lived Dark One so he could be around to see the devil meet his Maker.

"She fell to an attack from all corners," Waldo explains. He can't make eye contact with Rumple. "Three demons came at her at once, and from behind, Lucifer's new queen unleashed an onslaught of magic so powerful and quick that she had no chance to defend herself."

"But she'll be all right, won't see? The Master will take care of her," Rumple insists.

"The Master will take care of her," Beretrude replies. "But her time here has ended."

"What do you mean? Are you saying she's dead? But she can't; she's. . . she's an eternal being, isn't she?" he glares at Waldo. "Aren't you?"

"All beings are eternal and all die," Beretrude says, "except the Master."

"What does that mean?" Emma interrupts. "Is she alive or isn't she?"

"It means Helewise's time in this world is over. Death has taken her to the Master and she won't return here, not ever."

"We need to finish our work," another of the messengers reminds Beretrude.

She nods and gives the Deceiver a little poke with her sword. "Regina, you may demand of this one the cancellation of your contract with him. All you have to do is ask; he can't refuse. It's the price he will pay for us to return him to Hell."

Regina clears her throat. "You—Deceiver, Liar, Cheater, Betrayer, You Two-Timing Son of a—take back your magic and give me back my soul. Now!"

Numbed by shock, Rumple-Gold starts to turn away. He doesn't care any more what happens to Regina. He wants the spinning wheel to take him to the empty space where thought and emotion can't permeate.

She wouldn't have tolerated his escape, though. She would've called him back to witness the work being completed, work he contributed to. Work she and he and the other messengers and Henry have made happen. She would chastise him for running away, and when he challenged her decision to lay her life on the line for Regina, she would answer, "Have faith. There's a plan for Regina too; there's even a plan for me."

He grasps the bars of his cell to witness the completion of the work.

Beretrude unlocks Regina's cell and Waldo helps the former queen out, sets her on a chair.

The Deceiver, still kneeling, lifts his open palms toward his former queen. His fingers curl as his magic courses through his hands and strikes out, red as blood, spreads out and engulfs Regina. It smells of sulfur and ash and burning flesh. Regina's head lolls on her shoulder and her body slumps, but the magic holds her in place. From her skin her own magic rises, a weak lilac, not the royal purple she used to radiate. It mixes with Lucifer's, the two forces swirling in a vampire dance as the red magic gradually sucks in and consumes the lilac until only the red is left.

Regina collapses. Waldo drops to Regina's side, cradling her head. "She's all right," he assures everyone. "Fainted."

The Deceiver lowers his hands and the magic disappears.

"You're not done yet," Beretrude prods the demon with her burning sword.

"Yes, of course, that flimsy little pasteboard thing she calls her soul. Worthless to me. I must have been drunk the day I made that deal." The Deceiver shrugs but purses his lips and blows: a black cloud emerges from his lips. Exposed to the air, the cloud expands and gradually changes color, becoming pink.

Waldo gives Regina a slight shake to revive her. "It's almost over," he encourages her. "Just breathe now."

She inhales and the pink cloud is drawn into her nostrils. She breathes in again, deeply, as though awakening from a long sleep, and she blinks. Emma, finally acknowledging the uselessness of her gun, holsters it and fetches a cup of water to offer the prisoner.

"Now we're done," Beretrude decides, and in the blink of an eye the messengers and their captive have disappeared. Only Waldo remains to care for his charge. He lifts her in his arms and carries her back to her cell, lays her on her bed. He sits beside her, stroking her hand and talking to her quietly. He knows what's coming, and he knows what's needed: with a deep gasp Regina sits bolt upright and shrieks and bursts into uncontrollable sobs.

Emma gulps and looks to Rumple-Gold. Right now he seems to be the last link to reality, at least, as she thought she knew it. She folds her arms, pretending to want to appear angered, but he can see she's really trying to keep from shaking. "What the hell just happened?"

He should help her. She needs him right now, and she's been incredibly patient and kind through this whole ordeal. At the moment, though, he can't summon the strength to be her rock. His knee aches with a phantom pain as he lowers himself into his arm chair and drops his head into his hands. The only answer he can give is "War."

In the hour before dawn he stirs in the arm chair, every muscle aching from the cold night. He peers out and discovers Emma has gone home; Beretrude has returned to replace her. Rumple-Gold hopes that Emma was able to open up to her mother last night; Snow is always a good source of comfort. He let Emma down. When she returns tomorrow he'll talk to her, offer what support he can muster.

A hand rests upon his arm and he turns to face its owner. The young messenger has returned, now dressed for this world, in jeans and a blue sweater. "The Master sent me. I'll be with you the rest of the way through."

"Through what?"

"Life." For one so young, her face is dreadfully grim. He doubts if she's ever laughed.

"You're. . .replacing Helewise, then."

She nods.

He walks away from her, choosing to look outside at the snow instead. The moon is not visible tonight, nor the stars. "Forgive me, but how can you? You're so young. What can you know about our pain?"

She touches his arm again. "You will teach me."

He rests his forehead against the window pane. The cold bites his skin; it feels good, because his eyes are burning and something hot and wet is leaking from them.


	51. Chapter 51

Fifty-One

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were Kate Bush's "Love and Anger" and "Among Angels."**

* * *

In the morning, Regina asks for People's Evidence A, the master list of her crimes. Beretrude, who is on duty, suggests she wait until evening, when Waldo will be back and can help her go through it. Listening in, Rumple-Gold knows that by _it_ Beretrude means not the list itself, although the file is six inches thick, but rather the shock and the shame Regina will experience when she confronts her past, for the first time in full possession of her conscience and her emotions.

"You really should wait, dearie," he recommends.

For an hour or so Regina waits. She does not yet trust herself—in this she is probably wise. She is, as Helewise would say, a new creature, so her reactions and actions cannot be predicted. Quietly she eats her breakfast and goes through the motions of her morning.

But then she can wait no longer. During the night, instead of resting from her ordeal, she dug around in her memories, found the worst offenders of the lot and picked them apart, moment by moment, wallowing in the wrongfulness, flagellating herself for the pain she caused the victims. She's barely scratched the surface. She has a lifetime of wrongdoing to review. Once more she asks for Evidence A.

"Regina, believe me, while this is admirable and necessary, you must take it one small step at a time. If you try to do it all once, it will destroy you," Rumple-Gold advises.

"Then that's what I deserve," she says firmly.

"No, dearie, think about what your victims deserve. Your destruction won't help them."

"It would give them satisfaction. Assurance that justice has been served."

"No, that's revenge, not justice. Listen to me, Regina. What you've done, I've done in triplicate. I've carried the full catalog of my crimes and their aftermath in my head ever since the curse broke. My only salvation was that I didn't have to deal with it alone. Wait for Walderan. It's why we're here, not for the victims' satisfaction, but to reclaim our souls."

She discovers something. "It's why you turned yourself in." When he doesn't answer, she adds, "I wondered about that, why you didn't just run after you saw what they did to me."

"Wait for Walderan." He pauses. "Regina, can you tell yet who they are, Walderan and Beretrude? Without your magic to tell you, do you know who they are?"

She thinks it over for the first time. Today, and in the next several weeks, there will be many first times for her. "They didn't come from our world."

"No. Neither of our worlds."

"They're not like us, any of us."

"No."

"Where did they come from?"

"From the Source of All Magic."

She gasps. When she answers her voice is muffled; he imagines she has buried her face in her hands. "We're finished, then."

"No, they weren't sent to mete out punishment. The Source of All Magic is the Source of True Love."

"They were. . . sent to _love_ us?"

"Yes."

She breaks, and he knows exactly how she is broken. "No one, no one could ever love me."

He doesn't have to ask: Beretrude unlocks his cell, unlocks hers, allows him to go to her. As he imagined, she is sitting on her bed, her face in her hands. She wears no makeup, her hair hangs loose about her shoulders, and somehow her Saks suit looks cheap and ill-fitting on her half-starved frame. As he robs her nightstand of a box of Kleenex, he believes that now that her armor has been scraped off, he can see the sixteen-year-old who reached out for his help. He sits down beside her, encircles her with arms and allows her to rest against his chest. "Look at Beretrude. Look at Waldo. They're here for love. Look at Henry and Snow," he chuckles a little. "Look at Belle. Look at me." He squeezes her shoulders. "Think of Helewise and the One who sent her. You are loved by many, many people."

"How? How could anyone love me?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I'm still trying to figure that out for myself."

* * *

After supper, Waldo brings her one page of Evidence A. He sits with her as she reads through it slowly. "I don't remember doing this," she confesses.

"Most of it will come back to you, gradually. Don't try to rush it. You'll need time to accept it, ask for forgiveness and then let it go," Waldo cautions.

"Let it go? Shouldn't I—"

"Torture yourself with guilt?" he finishes her thought. "Who would that help?"

"But. . . to let it go. . .?"

"You have come here, to this prison, to carry out two tasks:to experience remorse and make recompense."

"But the file is six inches thick. How can I ever pay for all that? A hundred lifetimes wouldn't be enough."

"You will pay for your crimes in the same way you committed them: one at a time."

"Reliving it all, seeing what I was, I can't bear this."

"That's why I'm here, to bear it with you. And to show you that you aren't that woman any more. You're a new creature."

"Not a monster."

"Not a monster. Something precious: proof that love is the greatest power of all."

Somehow, Henry knows. When the children arrive at 3:00, instead of joining Operation Storyspinner, he stops at Regina's cage. She waits, standing back along the wall, watching him. He approaches as far as the bars will allow. "Hi, mom."

From his spot on the floor, Rumple-Gold tries to eavesdrop at the same time that he's greeting the Coon Cats. He hears Regina answer softly, "Hello, Henry."

The boy turns to Beretrude. "Can I go in? Please?"

The cell is opened for him.

When she arrives, Belle too detects the change, and it's not just that the evil witch has been permitted to have a child visitor in her cell. "There's something different about her," Belle remarks, after a welcoming kiss from Rumple-Gold. "I don't know, a different vibe."

"The war is over," he answers.

* * *

He wonders how they've pulled it off. Somehow, Waldo and Beretrude have convinced Emma and even Mother Superior, whom Emma has consulted on the matter, to hire Adela as Helewise's replacement. She seems to Gold to be too young even to babysit, let alone run a prison by herself, but somehow the convincing is done, Adela is hired.

Convincing Rumple-Gold is another matter altogether. Sometimes, late at night when he hears Regina sobbing into her pillow, he rises from his bed and watches the youngest guard, working at the nurses' station. Sometimes he gets a nasty little dollop of satisfaction in Regina's tears, because if not for her, it would be Helewise in that roller chair. He's ashamed of himself for feeling this way; Helewise would never have tolerated such meanness. But, however hard he's worked to change this past year, he's still Rumplestiltskin and Gold, with all their frailties. Still human.

He catches Adela staring into space sometimes, when there are no visitors or other guards around. She does all that's required of her, correctly and on time, but unlike Waldo and Beretrude and Bertie, she makes no effort to befriend the prisoners. She seems uncertain, a little lost in her new role. She seems lonely.

He relents. He invites her to pull up a chair.

He teaches her checkers and chess. She's surprisingly good at the latter, surprisingly bad at the former, but she takes no pleasure in winning anyway. Regina teaches her blackjack and pinochle. During the games they talk, sometimes all three of them. The old Regina would have wiped the floor with this innocent, but this Regina proceeds, as Rumple does, slowly, building a relationship with the girl one gentle comment at a time.

With the children, however, she's different, at ease, playful, her large brown eyes alight. In her look and her manner she reminds him of someone, though he can't think who. Someone who distrusts adults but loves children. He's known several people like that.

He apologizes to her, confesses that he took his grief out on her. She smiles then and confesses she misses Helewise too. They set up the chess board and begin a new game.

He teaches her to spin. She catches on quickly; her long fingers are made for the work. She assists him in creating the yarn that Belle will knit into a baby blanket for Bertie and Zoe.

* * *

The rules do not permit prisoners to complete income tax forms, nor for visitors to bring such documents into the prison. Gold is perturbed by this: with the closing of the pawnshop and the opening of the bookstore, his taxes are very complicated this year. Belle of course understands the concept of taxes better than most, considering her former informal position in government, but the taxes of this world leave her flummoxed. "Sales tax, property tax, income tax, state, federal, municipal," she moans. "How did you manage it all?"

He smiles apologetically. "I was Gold."

"I suppose you enjoyed all that paperwork, all those regulations."

He shrugs. "I did, yes. All those loopholes. But a wise business owner collaborates with those whose expertise complements his own."

"Her own," she corrects.

"There is a man in town that you should see. A wizard."

And so Belle hires CPA Oscar Diggs, freeing herself to do what she has discovered she can do well: manage her business. She's even writing a business plan for 2016, when she's sure technology will have made the Internet café obsolete: she'll be ready with the next big thing.

Gold looks up from the business plan with a whole new light in his eyes. He finds this businesswoman smart, well-informed, foresighted. . . and extremely sexy. Rumplestiltskin laughs. It's something he's known all along.

* * *

Belle isn't the only Storybrooker who's planning for the future.

By special appointment—one might say, nepotism—Mayor James visits Rumple-Gold right after breakfast one morning. To the latter's amazement, James asks to be allowed into the cell. He brings coffee and a drawing tablet, a pocketful of pencils. He sits sprawled on the spinning bench, laying the tablet out, setting a stack of pencils on either side of the tablet. "I, uh, hear the cat project went well. Thanks. Henry's enjoying his new pet. We all are."

"It went well for all of us." Rumple-Gold sits in his arm chair. "I appreciate you setting it up with the animal shelter. It was a great idea. Bertie will make a fine correctional treatment specialist when he graduates."

"I think so too. I've already written him a recommendation letter." James leans back, running his hand over his mouth. "You, ah, this is kind of awkward." He sighs. "When you designed the curse, you designed the town, right? Storybrooke."

"Yes. Regina had the basic plan. I did the research and took it from there."

"Well," James sighs again. "Would you consider doing it again?"

"I don't follow you."

"Most of us are thinking we'd like to go back home in a few years. We need a town to go back home to."

"Oh, I see."

"You're the only one of us who's had any real experience in that area. Yeah, we've got carpenters and thatchers and whatnot, people who know how to build a village like we had before, but that's not what we want. We like what we have here—the modern buildings, the paved streets, utilities, cars—well, some of us want the horses too, but we need cars and trucks."

"Hospitals. Schools—"

"For everyone, not just the rich." James grabs a pencil and begins to make notes in the tablet.

"Libraries. Parks. Public transportation." Rumple-Gold moves to the opposite side of the spinning bench, picks up a pencil and begins to sketch boxes on the page nearest him. "Sanitation. Water treatment facilities."

"Yeah, see? That's why I'm here. I was thinking you could get us started."

Rumple-Gold looks down at the tablet. "I believe we just did."

* * *

Regina still cries at night sometimes. She has a very heavy burden to carry. Sometimes the guards permit Rumple-Gold access to her cell so he can talk her down from her pain, so he can tell her the truth of her past. It's her fault, but not all of it. Others deserve to carry a share of this burden: the Deceiver, Estrilda, Rumplestiltskin.

Slowly, she changes, loses the lacquered hair, the warpaint, the manicured claws, the stiff spine and the cold shoulders. She becomes smaller in body, or maybe it's just that she's becoming larger in spirit.

She too becomes a storyspinner. They share this role, sometimes taking turns, sometimes telling a tale together.

Bertie introduces hippotherapy. It takes him months to convince Emma to permit it, and the sheriff puts the stables on magic dome-lockdown when she finally does accede, but just as she now allows Rumple-Gold and Belle to walk in the meditation garden together, she now allows, for one hour a week only, Waldo and Beretrude to escort a handcuffed Regina to Storybrooke Stables to ride.

On these days Regina returns to her cell glowing—not, however, from magic.

* * *

Emma and Adela escort the prisoner through the hospital to the parking lot and into a waiting car. Not the squad car, Rumple-Gold notices, but the sheriff's yellow Beetle. He smiles his appreciation; Emma smiles back. "Saving taxpayer dollars," she says. "The price of gas is horrendous."

But he knows better. She has neglected to fasten handcuffs to his wrists too. It's not that she trusts him completely, nor that she has become lax in the rules; it's that she's learned to trust her magic more. Helewise's dome has taught her that there are less intrusive ways to manage her prisoners.

She drives them to City Hall, where the mayor and the council and several carefully selected citizens with various areas of expertise are meeting to plan the new village, which for now they are calling Storybrooke II. The prisoner carries a briefcase containing maps and his sketch tablet; he wears a Hugo Boss suit and his shoes were shined this morning. To passersby, it's Old Man Gold walking down the sidewalk, minus the cane, probably off to make some big deal.

Well, it is Old Man Gold, off to make a big deal. Off to plan the future. He straightens his tie as he marches up the steps leading to the council chambers. When he arrives, the others shake his hand, offer him coffee, a seat to the right of the mayor's.

Rumple-Gold thoroughly enjoys his new job, even if they do intend to leave him and Regina behind when Storybrooke II is ready for move-in. After all, there must be immigration laws, even for ex-patriots, and it's common practice to refuse the immigration of convicted murderers.

When that subject—immigration laws—comes up in the planning meeting, Rumple-Gold squelches his temper, reigns in his indignation. Yes, of course there must be laws. He glances at Adela. They've had long talks about resentment and bitterness. He is learning.


	52. Chapter 52

Fifty-Two

**A/N. We're on the upswing now. The spirit guides for this chapter are Sting's "Love is the Seventh Wave" and Stevie Nicks' "Touched by an Angel."**

* * *

"Stay ahead of the curve" is Belle's motto. Her experiments in the kitchen—having conquered Southern cuisine, she's moved on to Chinese; she's working her way across the planet, she jokes—have spilled over to her business. Connected, Belle's Internet café, has experimented with theme nights and has become an alternative to the White Rabbit: those who don't drink or dance can come to Connected to socialize and be entertained. Saturdays are Gamers Day from 10am-7pm; after 7, it's Live Music Night, something different every week: Boy Band Night, Hip Hop Night, Pink Punk (punk meant to appeal to girls) Night, Hootenany Night. During the weekdays it's Open Mic Night, poetry slams, karaoke. Belle even tried Speed Dating Night, except only two men showed up for the thirty-two ladies—and one of those men was Whale.

She waltzes in one afternoon with egg rolls and a smug little smile. When he asks what's up, she says coyly, "I had my picture taken today."

"Lovely," he says. He's been asking her to visit Pat's Photos for a professional sitting; he would love to have a proper portrait of her for his nightstand, not just his own blurry photos. "Do you have some proofs with you?"

She slips her hand into her tote and, to his puzzlement, produces not an envelope of proofs but a wallet. She flips the wallet open and displays the "portrait" for him: a State of Maine driver's license made out to Belle Marie French.

"Yahoo!" The strange word jumps out before he can stop it. They both blink, then giggle: neither Gold in his thirty years nor Rumplestiltskin in his three hundred has ever, ever used the word _yahoo_. But everything changes; not even prison life stands still.

"Would you mind," Belle bites her thumbnail, as though expecting resistance, though surely she knows he will refuse her nothing, "if I traded the Caddy in? It's just that it's hard to maneuver down these narrow streets, and it's such a gas guzzler."

"I don't mind. I never liked that car anyway." Rumplestiltskin wants to leap on this opportunity and sell her on the idea of a Lamborghini, or at least a Ferrari, but Gold slaps him down: Belle's car, Belle's decision. "What make are you thinking of?" Something sensible, he's sure; she will have read _Consumer Reports_ and _Car and Driver_, will have test-driven dozens of models.

"I was thinking. . ." she draws in a brave breath. "Well, I know it's not the most economical, but since it will be my first car, I really want something fun, so I was thinking. . . well, Harvey's Foreign Motors has this 2012 Maserati GranTurismo that's just been sitting on the lot for months and I'm sure I can cut a good deal."

Rumple-Gold bites his lower lip. "I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine, sweetheart." What he really means is _yahoo! _Rumplestiltskin wonders if he still has a pair of leather pants packed away somewhere.

* * *

Moe French has returned to Storybrooke. Having read in the _Daily Mirror_ of his nemeses' incarceration, and having failed to make a go of it in New York City, he's come home, he says, to resume his old life. He doesn't say which life, Maurice's or Moe's, but he never attends any of the community meetings regarding the planning of Storybrooke II.

He drops in unannounced at Connected one afternoon, causing Belle to be late for visiting hours. At first, the conversation goes well—awkwardly, but well. He apologizes; she accepts. He explains; she says she understands. But then when he admits he's come back because he's sure she's come to her senses by now and has nothing more to do with that lying, thieving, cheating, bullying—

She throws him out. "Papa, until you can speak civilly of the man I love, you're not welcome in our business or our home." And she scoops up Kitten Rumple, flips the "closed" sign on the café door and hops into her Maserati.

_Our business. Our home. _When she repeats this conversation to him, Rumple-Gold clutches at those words. But he needs to deal with the bigger issue here: he's come between a father and daughter, and that won't stand. If the relationship is reparable, it must be repaired: family is too important. Even grown children need their parents.

* * *

He thinks about this as he talks to Bertie at supper that evening. No, Bertie reports, there's been no change in that quarter; despite the letter from R. Gold, which Bertie has seen lying open on his father's desk, Dr. Weaver has said nothing to indicate an acceptance of either his son's marriage or his career choice, and it's upsetting Zoe. The baby will be coming any day now; her own parents have flown in from Florida to support her through this time. Why can't Dr. Weaver, who works at the very hospital in which she will deliver, who plays golf once a week with her OBGYN, why can't Dr. Weaver make the same offer?

"Sometimes fathers, in a moment of colossal stupidity, make a choice so wrong they're unwilling to admit it. And sometimes, they're so ashamed of themselves that they will risk losing their children's love in the fear that admitting their stupidity will mean they lose their children's respect."

Bertie nods thoughtfully. The explanation gives him insight, but it doesn't give him a solution. "What do I do, Rum? I got to do something, for Zoe and the baby's sake."

Rumple-Gold tears little bits off his paper napkin as he thinks it over. "Why do you think he's so opposed to your marriage?"

"It's not Zoe," Bertie says quickly. "When we were dating, he complimented her often enough. It's not even her folks. He's never even met them. He didn't come to our wedding: claimed he had to work that day. Mom and Micah came alone. Can you imagine that, Rum? Not showing up to your own son's wedding."

Rumple-Gold balls the napkin and tosses it into his coffee cup. "No, I can't." He wonders how much of Bae's life he's missed out on, all because of one stupid mistake.

"He keeps saying we're too young to start a family. We're being irresponsible. We don't make enough money yet to support a child; we still live in student housing and I've got twenty thousand in student loans to pay back and it'll be another year until I graduate. Zoe had to drop out of school this semester because of the baby. She's going to go back and finish as soon as I graduate, but—yeah, he's right, it's rough, but we're getting by."

"So money is the main issue?" Rumple-Gold's skin begins to prickle. He can't imagine a father using money as an excuse to isolate himself from his son.

"Truthfully, I think that's just the easy excuse. Mom says Dad has some 'commitment issues' due to the fact that he was abandoned as a child. Not that his adoptive parents didn't treat him right, but. . . . He's never been able to get close to people, you know? Not even Mom, really. And then they married young and had me right away—well, it was hard on them, him being in med school and not making any money; she had to support all of us. They busted up a couple of times."

"So he doesn't want that for you."

"Yeah, I can see that, but that's his life, right? I'm not him."

The men fall silent as they consider the situation. Rumple-Gold can and will make things a little easier for the lad: he will send instructions to the VP of his bank to arrange for a scholarship to be created, the first recipient of which will be Bertie Weaver. But that will only take care of superficial needs.

Bertie rises and gathers the dishes to take back upstairs. "Thanks for listening, Rum."

"You're welcome, Bertie. Wish I had an answer for you."

"Not sure there is one. Zoe agrees with me, though: we're not gonna give up on the old man. He's still my dad, right? Love doesn't quit that easy."

"No, love doesn't quit, not even on old fools."

* * *

Adela reports for Bertie's next shift.

Regina, bless her recently renewed heart, asks the question right away: "Is everything okay with the baby?"

"More than okay," Adela reports. "She arrived at 5:43 this morning, eight pounds one ounce, twenty-one inches long. Mother, daughter and father are doing well. Bertie asked me to pass along a message to you, Rumplestiltskin. I guess he must have been a bit rattled because he got his pronouns mixed up. The message says, 'He came.'"

Rumple-Gold grins. "No, that's the right message. Adela, will you bring me an envelope and a stamp? I need to write a letter."

* * *

"Here's Chloe, one hour old. Recognize that blanket? Zoe says thanks, by the way; it's perfect. This is my mom with Chloe. . . me and my mom and Chloe. . . this is Zoe's elbow. She kept moving. She didn't want me to take her picture till she had a chance to fix her hair. . . .me and Chloe. . . Actually, we named her Clotild—my dad suggested it—but that's such a mouthful of a name for such a little girl, so we're calling her Chloe. And that's my mom and Zoe, after Zoe found her hairbrush. . ." There's only one photo left. Bertie withholds it until he's had a chance to preface it: "Zoe says to say thanks, because mom says it was your letter that did the trick. So from both of us, thanks, Rum. We want you to keep this one." He presents the last photo.

The picture depicts a family gathered around a hospital bed. A young woman with smooth blonde hair is in the bed: she's holding up a red-faced baby wrapped in a yellow knit blanket. The baby looks just like her father, except her large eyes are blue, and her expression is one of irritation. Rumple-Gold imagines she is annoyed by the commotion and would prefer to snuggle down in her warm blanket for a nap. Leaning in, arm around the young woman, is Bertie, who's giving the camera a thumb's up. Leaning on Bertie is an older woman, a redhead with a stubborn chin and sharp blue eyes. She would have to be tough, Rumple-Gold imagines, to handle Bill Weaver.

On the other side of the bed is a salt-and-pepper haired man in a lab coat and tie. He stands with his arms folded, but at least he's smiling a little. His dark eyes are shielded by a stylish pair of Tom Ford glasses.

Bertie points to a stuffed lamb at the foot of the bed. "Dad brought that. He only stayed a couple of minutes, then he said he had to make his rounds."

"But he came."

"He came," Bertie agrees. "That's a start."

* * *

Mother Superior has come to take the prisoners for an outing, at the request of Regina.

The Beetle being too small for the number of passengers, Emma plans to take the squad car until Belle makes her an offer she can't refuse: use of the Maserati. The sheriff slides her hands across the leather interior and breathes in deep as she slips behind the wheel. "Ah, it's still got that new car smell."

Gold thinks that at $140 grand, that new car smell had better come as standard equipment, but Rumplestiltskin orders the spoil-sport to shut up and enjoy the trip. It's a good thing Emma won't allow him to drive; ever since Belle told him the car's top speed is supposedly 177 mph, he's been itching to test that claim—in his leather pants and dragon-skin jacket, of course, with classic Stones blasting on the stereo.

Even Rumple has to admit, that's pretty bold talk for a 300-year-old man. Gold just rolls his eyes and gripes about the car payments and the insurance.

With Mother Superior riding shotgun and Regina in the back, Emma turns the key in the ignition. As the engine turns over, she sighs, "Sweet" and shifts into drive.

Regina is contemplative as she sits with a box across her knees. She dressed in black today; it seemed appropriate, she said when she emerged from her cell, but Rumple-Gold shook his head: he has worn a gold silk shirt. He sees the work they're about to do as a victory.

They arrive, too soon for Rumple's tastes, at the edge of the forest. If they turned right, they'd eventually find Gold's cabin. If they turned left, they'd find the river. Instead, they get out and walk. Emma has set a barrier spell so that the prisoners must remain within twenty feet of her—just in obedience to the rules, she adds with a glare to Mother Superior. Emma has faith in her prisoners.

They follow a faint path that leads about a mile west of the cabin and two miles north of the river. The path winds along a bit of a cliff, not so steep that a fall would hurt anyone, but steep enough that Rumple-Gold offers Mother Superior his hand to keep her from slipping. A recent spring rain has dampened the grass and muddied the path, but amazingly, Regina does not complain as she carries her box carefully in both hands. Occasionally she stumbles, and Emma reaches out to steady her.

Gold notes the irony of the imp and the savior protecting their old enemies from falls.

It's not a long walk, but Regina tires quickly these days, still a little weak from her bout with the fairy dust. In the last half-mile Emma takes the box from her to ease her burden.

They have now come to the well. Rumplestiltskin peers over the side, though he knows he won't be able see anything. He hopes the waters have not gone dry; he hopes the combined powers of Lake Nostros and True Love's Magic remain strong. It's all experimental.

"The powers are still strong."

He looks over his shoulder to find Beretrude, Waldo and Adela behind him. They've dressed in white silk and gossamer for the occasion.

"Sorry to interrupt," Waldo shrugs. "This is kind of an important moment for us too."

"I'm glad you're here," Regina says. She turns to Emma, who still holds the box. Regina lifts the lid and removes the contents: the baseball-sized mausoleum. "I'm just sorry it took me so long." She holds the mausoleum over the well's mouth. "I'm sorry it's necessary at all."

Mother Superior reaches out her hand to Rumple-Gold. "Do you know the spell, Regina? We'll cast it with you."

Regina nods and releases the mausoleum. The three casters recite the ancient words: "_Restituere pectus hoc, reparare hac vita_."

As before, Rumple-Gold watches a swirling yellow cloud rise from the well's depths and take to the sky. There's no wind to dissipate the cloud, so it spreads slowly until it's completely thinned out and invisible against the bright blue April sky.

"It's beautiful," Regina breathes. Her cheeks are damp.

"What happens next?" Emma asks.

Beretrude answers, "The hearts have been returned to the Master. He will mend them and return them to the people they were taken from."

"What if those people died?"

"Everyone needs a heart, Emma."

Waldo grabs Regina for a bear hug, throwing the former witch off-balance. Even now, though her body language shows she's approachable and her eyes show she's caring, she's not huggable—except to Waldo and sometimes Henry. But she smiles, pats her hair back into place and hugs him back. "Congratulations, Regina. You're free now."

Mother Superior, Beretrude and Adela all incline their heads in homage. Rumple-Gold offers a bow. "Congratulations, Regina."

Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright; her expression reminds Rumplestiltskin of a new bride—of how Regina should have looked on her wedding day. He could have prevented all this, if he'd only stood up when the priest asked, "If anyone here can show just cause as to why these two should not be joined together." So many simple choices he could have made would have led them all down an entirely different path.

Adela touches his shoulder and whispers in his ear, "But now it's right."

Regina draws in a cleansing breath. "You were right, Rumple. The anvil's gone. I feel human."

Waldo takes her hands in his. "Regina, I have a message for you from the Master." He draws her off to the side so he can speak to her in private.

Regina's eyes widen with fear, but Rumple-Gold grins. He has a pretty good idea what the message is.


	53. Chapter 53

Fifty-Three

**A/N. Thank you, Dracomom, for the christening idea! We'll see the outcome in chapter 54.**

**The spirit guide for this chapter was Sting's "A Thousand Years."**

* * *

Rumplestiltskin-Gold sends a note to Moe French, requesting a meeting. The florist probably figures Rumple plans to offer some sort of deal: an exchange of Belle for. . .whatever. One never knows what odd objects the Dark One covets. Rumple knows Moe thinks he's hooked Belle with some sort of powerful spell; how else would his sweet, kind daughter fall for such a beast? Rumple will probably never manage to convince French otherwise. But to facilitate a reunion between the daughter and the father may be manageable, since in their heart of hearts it's what they both want anyway. If Rumple can only convince them to take him out of the equation, to focus on their own relationship instead of Moe's fear of Rumple and Belle's loyalty to him, a reunion could be effected.

So he writes, in his most persuasive prose, and he waits.

* * *

The world outside changes, and except for the occasional City Hall visit for planning meetings, Rumple-Gold sees none of it. Here, nothing changes. He and Regina count on their visitors to bring variety into prison life, to bring celebration of small achievements, to bring problems they can puzzle out together. To bring life.

One morning the phone at the nurses' station rings. Regina and Rumple-Gold both leap to their feet; Beretrude cocks her head: the phone _never_ rings. The three exchange a worried glance before Beretrude picks up the receiver. "Storybrooke Prison. Security Desk. May I help you?"

She listens, nods as if the caller could see her, then responds, "One moment, please." Biting her lip, she sets the receiver down and hurries down the hall to the cells. Regina draws in a sigh of relief when Beretrude passes her by, but then offers sympathy for her neighbor: "Oh, Rumple, I'm sorry."

It's bad. It's got to be.

Rumple-Gold squares his shoulders, but his voice shakes a little. "Is it Belle?"

Beretrude nods, still biting her lip. But there's something amiss: her eyes are shining, and now she's starting to laugh. She's laughing so hard she can't punch in the correct code to the keypad. Her laughter doubles her over. "No, no, don't worry," she gasps between giggles. "It's—" and she can't even get the words out past her giggles. She finally punches in the correct numbers, the cell door pops open and she waves at him to step out. "Come on, you're going to have to take this call."

He runs to the phone, forgetting all protocol: Beretrude would be well within her rights to use her stun gun on him, but this is about Belle—he's not about to use this opportunity to try to escape, and everyone knows it. He slams the receiver against his ear and shouts, "Belle! Belle! What's wrong?"

Belle is talking so fast she's tripping over her words. He catches something about a realtor and the basement and Rumple and. . . a lion slamming the door. "Belle, sweetheart, stop. Take a breath. Slow down and start again."

She's frantic and confused and—and giggling all at once. He hears her take in the obedient breath. "The realtor came this morning."

"Yes?" They had discussed this: she's thinking of selling the pink house. He agrees: he knows from experience that the house is too much work to keep up, it's expensive and drafty and lonely for a single occupant. He's been urging her to sell, and now she's taken the first step.

"I was showing her around the house."

"Of course."

"Rumple was being such a pest. It's like she knows we're selling and she doesn't want us to. She was underfoot all morning. Anyway, we'd gone through all the rooms, and then the realtor said, 'This house has a basement, doesn't it?' Rumplestiltskin, I'm soooo sorry! I can't tell you how sorry I am. I guess I was just flustered. You know I've never sold a house before, and with the cat distracting me—"

He surmises, "You took the realtor down to the basement." The basement, where all his lab equipment is stored. All his potions. All his experiments in magic. It's his fault, really: he should have cleaned all that stuff out before he turned himself in; he just forgot. "Is she. . . ? Are you. . . .?"

"Oh, we didn't go down there. We're both fine. I remembered at the last minute and I closed the door. I gave her some lame excuse about it being a mess down there. But the cat—Rumplestiltskin, she streaked past my legs before I could grab her and she ran down the stairs. Well, I thought I could fix it, you know? I hurried the realtor out, said I had another appointment I needed to get to, and I ran back to the basement and opened the door, but I heard this crash and suddenly a cloud of gray smoke came billowing up the stairs."

"Oh no. . . What did it smell like?"

"What?"

"The gray smoke. What did it smell like?"

"You remember when I cooked liver and onions, and I had the heat up too high and it burned? Like that."

"I see. And then what?"

"I called and called for Rumple to come, and—and I heard this heaving thud-thud-thud and it was a lion! A lion came running up the stairs at me! Well, I slammed the door shut and locked it, but now—Rumplestiltskin, we have a lion in our basement!"

He can't help it. He bursts out laughing too. He laughs so hard his eyes water. He laughs so hard he can't speak. He doubles over and still he can't stop laughing.

"Rumplestiltskin? Are you _laughing_?"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart." He gasps and laughs again and gasps again until finally he has control. "It's okay. Everything will be okay." Unless the cat-lion knocks over some other potion. "We can fix this. Just go back to the basement and open the door an inch, no more, just an inch. And recite these words." He gives her a spell. "Go on now, I'll wait here. After you've done it come back and tell me if it worked."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I once accidentally turned a mouse into an elephant. The beast made a terrible mess of the castle till I immobilized it and turned it back into a mouse. It'll be fine, sweetheart. Go ahead."

"All right. . ." She's not convinced.

He hears her set the receiver down and walk away. In a few minutes he hears a strange noise on the other end of the phone, like a small motor running, and then there's an angry meow and he hears Belle bark, "Get down, Rumple! Bad kitty!" Her voice returns to the phone. "Hello? It's okay now; it worked. She's a cat again. A demon cat, I think, but a cat. The basement stinks to high heaven, though. Should I go downstairs and clean up?"

"No, no," he answers hastily. "Close the door and lock it. I'll ask the Reul Ghorm to come and get rid of everything. She'll know how to dispose of it safely."

"I'm so sorry, darling."

"It's not your fault, sweetheart. I should've taken care of that stuff before. No harm done."

Everything changes. But it's comforting to know some things can be changed back.

* * *

After a long consultation with Rumple-Gold, Mother Superior and Nova rid the basement of all paraphernalia related to magic. Everything has been buried, burned, smashed or removed.

Even the books are gone.

Rumple-Gold thinks a long time about that before asking Mother Superior to remove the books. He'd spent hundreds of years and made countless deals to acquire those books, and in the end he can't decide what to do with them. Certainly, he doesn't want them to remain in this world where they might tempt one of the new and naïve practitioners of magic—where they might form the next Regina, Cora or Rumplestiltskin. Yet, if those books are taken to Storybrooke II and properly protected, they just might save lives someday with the knowledge they contain, should an attack come from one of the other magic-possessing worlds. In the end, he decides to leave the choice to One who would know best. Late one evening, as Regina sleeps soundly, he calls Adela to his cell and asks the question.

He has even debated about which messenger to confide in. Beretrude, with her experience and judgment, would seem the best choice, but Adela is the messenger assigned to him—assigned by the Master Himself. Surely that means the Master intended Rumple to seek her out for guidance, despite her obvious limitations. He decides to trust her.

She listens gravely as he explains the situation. Equipment, potions and powders can be replicated, if need be, but the knowledge contained in those books, once destroyed, would be lost forever. Should he trust future generations to handle that information wisely, or should he destroy something irresistibly evil? If the books are to be preserved, in whose hands should they be placed?

"I will ask the Master," she says simply. She bows her head and he waits, respectfully quiet, just a little envious that she has this privilege of direct communication with the Source. He wonders if there will ever be a day he can talk to the Master and receive a direct answer.

Adela raises her head and smiles at him. "Yes," she says, "you've always had that privilege. You just haven't learned how to listen. As for the books, the Master says He trusts you to manage them."

Rumple-Gold hadn't seen that one coming. "Me? But how? Does He want me to keep them here?" he waves at his little prison cell.

"Here." She points to his heart.

He feels something cool and round pressed against his chest. Puzzled, he unbuttons his shirt and looks, and finds a heavy gold medallion hanging around his neck. "I don't. . . "

"Turn the medallion over."

He does and finds writing on the back, in the language of Loameth. He's rusty; he hasn't spoken this language in centuries, but he thinks he can translate a few of the words. It doesn't really matter anyway, as long as he pronounces the words correctly: he recognizes this as a spell.

"Not a spell," she corrects. "A prayer. If you ever need the books, just pray this prayer and the Master will return them to you, no questions asked. Until then, they are in His keeping."

* * *

Rumple-Gold has received his first invitation.

It's a pretty little card edged in pink satin and the words are spelled out in glitter: "Please share this happy day with us!" Inside, a handwritten notation requests his and Belle's presence at the christening of Clotild Shannon Weaver, daughter of Zoe and Bertie. He's never been to a christening before. But alas, this invitation is fraught with complications.

"Thank you, Bertie," Rumple-Gold says when the young guard arrives for his shift. "I'm sure Belle will be delighted to come."

"Don't worry; I've cleared it with Emma for you to be there. You'll be under Beretrude's watch, of course, but Emma says you can come. It will only take a half-hour, and we're doing it here in town so that you can be there. So you see, you can't not come. Zoe and I have already made all the arrangements."

"I, uh—" he can think of no objection, though he's stunned by Emma's generosity. "All right, I'll be happy to attend."

"There's a little more to it," Bertie says. "You see, Zoe and I would like for you and Belle to—to be Chloe's godparents." He waits for this news to sink in.

Rumple-Gold echoes, "Godparents?"

"Godparents," Bertie replies firmly. "It would mean a lot to us if you'd say yes."

Rumple-Gold runs his hand through his hair. "Belle, of course. Belle is a wonderful choice and I'm sure she'll say yes."

"We already asked her, and she did, and she said you'd say yes too, once I explain to you how much it means to us."

Rumple-Gold can feel the paint creeping into the tiny corner in which he's trying to hide. "She did, did she? Bertie, I'm honored more than I can say, but I'm anyone's last choice for a godfather."

Bertie persists. "It's you we really want, Rum. Zoe and I agree on that: we figure you and Belle are a package deal, but it's you we really want."

Rumple-Gold sputters, "But why? Godparents, as I understand it, are supposed to be moral and spiritual guides for the child."

"Exactly, Rum. We know what you did; believe me, I read the report cover to cover. But you're not that man any more. The way you helped Regina—I read the report; I know she's your mortal enemy, but you worked your ass off defending her, and you're still coaching her. That's what convinced me. And the way you are with the kids, Henry and Grace and the rest—that's what convinced Zoe. But more than anything, we feel like you're on our side, and that you'll be on Chloe's side too, if she should ever need your help."

"Well, yes, but—"

"Listen, Rum: Zoe and I thought about this a long time. When I told my dad about it, you better believe he hit the roof. Said I was doing this just to defy him, insult his values. But then I showed him Emma's report to the Department of Corrections. He went off into his den for, like, two hours, and when he came back out, his face—well, I've never seen him look like that. Thunderstruck. Shocked. He kind of opened and closed his mouth a few times, like he wanted to argue, but then he shook his head and went back into his den. Anyway, if you're thinking he might make a scene, don't worry. He's not coming. Very conveniently, he happens to be working next Sunday." Bertie grins. "But I happen to know you're available next Sunday, so you can't refuse."

"But me, as a spiritual guide—"

"Exactly. You as a spiritual guide. Please."

Long after he's nodded dumbly and Bertie's popped off to deliver the news to Zoe, he's wondering if he's done the right thing. He takes comfort in the fact that should Chloe ever seek his moral counsel, he can consult Belle. They are, as Bertie said, a package deal.

* * *

Belle arrives early today, but she doesn't come directly to his cell. To his dismay, she and Emma wander off somewhere. The Coon Cats have come and gone by the time Belle finally shows up, Emma in tow, at his cell.

"What's up?" he's a tad suspicious.

Belle opens her mouth, considers, then closes it and draws up a chair. Emma too takes a seat, and then he knows this is serious. His mouth goes dry. The women exchange a glance, and that makes his skin crawl.

After a long moment of silence, Belle reaches into her tote bag. He notices she has not brought the cat with her. This must really be serious.

She removes a portfolio that he recognizes immediately. Until now, it resided in a locked metal box in the back of his bedroom closet. She lays the portfolio on her knees, opens it and delicately removes a large sheet of parchment.

The parchment is over three hundred years old. It should have turned yellow and crumpled to dust long ago, but magic has preserved it, just a little touch of his magic. With a glance at Emma, Belle holds the sheet up so he can see it. She really doesn't have to, though; he already knows the image sketched on the parchment. He knows every line, every shading, every dot. He has spent eons, even in this world, examining this sketch, as though just breathing on it could breathe life into it. That never happened, of course; it remained just a parchment, just a portrait of a lost little boy.

"I was packing," Belle says. She has been packing everything in the pink house. It's slow work, especially with her long hours at Connected and her daily visits to the prison, but she insists on doing all the packing herself. She doesn't want strangers handling his things, some of which may contain a little leftover magic, others of which might be precious and private to him. And she's right; he wouldn't have wanted a stranger handling this parchment, the only likeness of Bae.

It had been drawn just three days after Rumplestiltskin ended the Second Ogres War. Still flush with his victory, his satchel full of coin he'd conjured, Rumplestiltskin had taken Bae to the marketplace to feast and to spend. Now, Rumple-Gold can see that day for what it was: an attempt to bribe the boy into accepting his father's new role as the Dark One. A miserably failed attempt—Rumple-Gold smiles now with pride, remembering Bae's refusal to be bought, his indignation at the lame attempt. As a commercial venture it had failed too, for the vendors had either hidden when they saw the Dark One coming or had simply tossed their wares at him with a plea to be left unmolested. After that, Rumplestiltskin never did have an enjoyable shopping experience again.

But the portrait: Bae had tolerated that; it seemed an act of normalcy and of fatherly love, so he sat still as the artist had made the sketch. A little magic was required to keep the artist's hand from shaking, but when the work was finished, Rumplestiltskin had been quite pleased and paid the artist handsomely. No matter. Money meant nothing to the Dark One.

This portrait Regina had unwittingly transported, along with all of Rumplestiltskin's other possessions, to Storybooke, not even aware it existed, not aware Bae existed. But now Emma knows.

"We want to look for him," Belle says.

"I can use that picture to search Missing Children databases, FBI files, Child Protective Services—believe me, in this world, no one's an unknown. If you exist, there's a file on you somewhere," Emma adds.

"And I want to build a website. Henry will show me how. I'll put this picture on the site." She leans forward eagerly. "Rumplestiltskin, millions upon millions of people use the Internet every day, all over the world. They will be our eyes."

"Between us, we'll find him, and we'll bring him here," Emma concludes.

"Let us try," Belle urges. "Please."

He starts to shake his head. To have the world know of his abandonment—

Belle knows what he's thinking. Despite the bars between them, they have become this close, that she can anticipate his thoughts, and he, to a lesser extent—for in many ways she remains a mystery to him—hers. "We won't tell anyone more than they need to know. We'll merely say his father wishes to find him."

She lays the portrait on her lap and touches his hand. Somehow that small movement seems to bind them—to Rumple-Gold, it feels as though the three of them have been family forever. They belong together. He swallows and nods, glances at Emma, who's smiling confidently, glances at Belle, who's smiling hopefully. "Try. Please."


	54. Chapter 54

Fifty-Four

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were John Denver's "Singing Skies and Dancing Waters" and "Love is the Master" **

* * *

Dr. Weaver, his son reports, has been acting odd of late: quiet, contemplative. He's always been reserved, even stand-offish, but he doesn't bark or bite much these days. He says nothing of Bertie's career or marriage, nothing of Micah's military achievements, nothing of the wasteful, mollycoddling prison system. He hasn't even said anything about the upcoming christening. He just eats his dinner in silence each night, then gets up from the table and goes into his den.

"Maybe he's thinking," Rumple-Gold suggests.

* * *

At first he thinks it's a dream, but he learned long ago how to control his dreams, and when he finds he can't control this he knows it's a vision. Or rather, an infiltration: his mind has been invaded by a smooth-talking, good-looking man in an impeccable suit (Gucci, it appears).

"Hello, Rum, my lad," the man greets him gently and genteelly.

"Don't call me that," he snaps. Only Bertie and Zoe can call him that and not get their noses bit off. Well, of course, and Belle, but Belle never has tried.

"Thought you'd seen the last of me, didn't you? But you should know I never give up on my kith and kin."

"You're no kin of mine."

"Of course I am, son. You wound me." The dapper gent is sitting in a wingback chair that looks quite familiar. "Oh, this? Yes, I took it from your study. Seems your lovely lady is holding a yard sale. Oh? You didn't know that?" He's reading Rumple-Gold's thoughts, an impressive power to be sure, but one the Master gave out generously on the other side as well—even little Adela can perform that stunt in her sleep. "Well, she decided you simply had too much junk, and since you'll never see any of it again, what's the harm if she gets rid of it all? All that old, heavy furniture of yours depresses her. She wants to go modern. The Cindy Crawford Collection, I believe she told Snow. Yes, that was it."

Rumple-Gold gags. "Now I know you're lying."

"Am I?" The Black Star runs his fingers down the crease of his trousers before crossing his legs oh so casually. "Perhaps I'm just toying with you. You'll find out tomorrow. Now, on to business."

"No."

"You haven't even heard my proposition yet. What's got into you? You've never been able to walk away without at least hearing the terms first." The Black Star snaps his manicured fingers. "Oh, that's right. You aren't the Dark One any more." Then he laughs. "Just messing with you, Rum, because I now have a new Dark One."

"Not interested. Get lost."

"It's someone you know," the Black Star sings.

"Not interested."

"Not the least bit curious? I'll give you this bit of information without charge."

"No."

"All right then." The Black Star straightens his cuffs in a slightly miffed gesture. "Now, I've come to take you back home. Generous and forgiving soul that I am, I've decided to accept your most humble apology and welcome you back into the fold."

Rumple-Gold snorts. He turns to walk away, but the Black Star merely changes position. Every time Rumple-Gold turns, the Black Star's there in front of him. He'll have to listen or wake up, so he concentrates on waking up.

"Oh, but wait till you hear how I'm sweetening the pot." The Black Star raises a finger to keep count. "Uno. I'm making you #1 Dark One. The current position holder will answer to you. And quite a powerful—and may I say, beautiful and eager young thing she is too." The Black Star listens for a moment—Rumple-Gold can feel the demon's long, cold fingers digging into his brain. "What do you mean, you're 'monogamous'?! All right then, if you must have your Belle, Belle you shall have. I'll throw her in for free." He raises a second finger. "Dos. Unlimited wealth. And you don't even have to work for it this time. No more spinning. Just reach into your never-empty pocket and there it will be."

"No."

The Black Star raises a third finger. "Better watch out, Rum. I've only got three more fingers. Don't play hard-to-get too long. Okay, tres. Double your powers. In fact, you name me three powers you always wished you had, and they're yours, right here, right now. Raise the dead? Force people to fall in love? Move the sun and the stars around in the heavens? All yours."

"No."

"Quatro. Be careful, Rum, you're about to lose me. Quatro. World leadership, and all the envy, respect, admiration and women that come with it. World leadership for. . . let's say, 100 years. See how generous I can be, my boy? A century of domination over five billion people. Or is it six already? I stopped counting."

"No."

The Black Star sits back in his—or is it Rumple-Gold's?—chair and straightens his tie. He's unruffled. With access to his prey's brain, he knows what would most tempt Rumple-Gold, and of course he's withheld it for last, his prey being a captive audience. "Cinco. Best for last. A total reset. I can send you back in time. You take your pick: Rome in the days of Caesar. London in the days of Shakespeare. Berlin, 1930s. EuroAmerica, 2525." He leans forward confidentially. "Or, uh, how about Alsford, three hundred sixty years ago. You could see your beloved old mentor again. Asurwen, three hundred forty-five years ago. You could refuse to allow Estrilda to attend the harvest festival. Imagine how different _everything_ would be if you made that one simple correction, if you kept her from meeting that hack magician. One of mine, by the way.

"Or suppose, all those nights she cried alone in her bed, suppose instead you'd comforted her? Imagine what a different woman she might have turned out to be. Not too keen on keeping Estrilda? Fine. Let's move ahead a couple of years. You're conveniently out of town when the Duke's recruiters come by on their headhunt. No Ogre War for you, my lad. Or you go to war but you discover a bit of intel that enables your army to win the war. They make you general. Nice, huh? And how proud your Bae would be. The friends he would have, the opportunities, if his father was a war hero, a _living_ war hero. Jump ahead a little. What if you'd never moved to Tardolith. What if you'd taken Cora's baby like you were supposed to." He sneers into Rumple-Gold's face. "What if you'd let go of that damn dagger?"

"No!"

"Got you now, don't I? All I want is your soul, and for that you get everything—and most importantly, a chance to do everything the way you should have the first time." The Black Star buffs his nails on his jacket.

"No one can alter time!"

"Ah, see? You're thinking about it. Quite the morsel, isn't it? As it happens, we found the way. My new queen, my new Dark One and I, we discovered the formula. Just as a profession courtesy—ah, hell, let's be honest: just to drive you nuts—I'll show you a snippet." He snaps his fingers and a scroll appears in Rumple-Gold's hands.

Gods help him, he has to look. He can't stop himself. He'd worked so hard, searched so long; if there's any possibility the Black Star really has found the way to transcend time. . . . . Rumple-Gold studies the few lines printed on the scroll and finds them good. The Black Star may be telling the truth.

Which means, Rumple-Gold could have it all, everything that matters: power and respect, admiration and love. Belle and Bae.

"Lovely." The Black Star rises. He's made himself well over ten feet tall and as he approaches, Rumple-Gold becomes acutely aware of the height difference. The Black Star walks behind his prey, encircles him, rests an affectionate hand on Rumple-Gold's shoulder. "All you have to do is sign on the dotted line." A fountain pen appears in Rumple-Gold's right hand, and the scroll in his left hand has changed its writing: it's a contract. "Yes, everything that matters. Power."

Rumple-Gold's ear starts to itch. _From the back of his memory he hears King James: "I was thinking you could get us started." Started on planning a new town. Could that not be considered power?_

"Respect."

_He remembers the residents of Storybrooke coming to him, one by one, two by two, to ask for magic lessons. He remembers their gifts of home remedies, when he was ill; he remembers the gifts from their kitchens, when he was well and could eat again. Could that not be considered respect?_

"_The Master says He trusts you to manage them," Adela said of the books. Could that not be considered great respect?_

"Admiration."

_He remembers Henry informing the other Coon Cats that he thinks Rumplestiltskin's stories are closest to the truth. Could that not be considered admiration?_

"_We feel like you're on our side, and that you'll be on Chloe's side too, if she should ever need your help." Could that not be considered admiration?_

"Love."

_He remembers Regina's amazement: "They were. . . sent to love us?" They were. Helewise, Waldo, Beretrude, Adela; Saer, Samer, Osbert, Clotild; Bae and Belle; Snow and Emma; Henry and Grace and all the children of Storybrooke; Zoe and Chloe and Bertie; perhaps even, in a way that he was too damaged to recognize, the young Estrilda; perhaps even, in a way he perverted, the young Regina—sent by the Master to demonstrate His love. The peasant and the imp and the businessman and the new creature Rumple-Gold, all have been loved._

How could he ever have doubted it?

"Belle."

"_Rumplestiltskin! Ten!"_

"_Where you go, I go!" Belle had written, and she proved it by overcoming her fear and returning to the scene of her long imprisonment._

He has Belle. Always and forever. She declared it, and she does not lie.

"Bae."

"_You'll have his love to carry you over the bridge, if you so choose it," Helewise had said._

"_Between us, we'll find him, and we'll bring him home," Emma had said._

He has Bae. The bond between father and son has not been broken by time or space: the Master, speaking through Helewise, said it was so. And Emma the huntress and Belle the networker will locate Bae, Rumple-Gold _knows_ it. He believes in them, he believes in Helewise and the Master.

_"Have faith," Helewise had said._

Rumple-Gold rips the contract into tiny bits and throws them over his shoulder. "I thought I was a coward, but you, you're the king of the cowards, hiding behind curses, tricking raped teenagers and lame peasants into fighting your battles for you. And _killing angels_!" He reaches up and grabs those Gucci lapels and thrusts with every ounce of strength he can muster, throwing the demon off-center. He's so enraged that he ignores his own powerlessness and small size next to the Black Star. "What kind of thing are you? Killing angels!" He shoves the demon backwards—and discovers that the beast has lost about two feet in height. "Killing angels!" He shoves again, and the demon falls.

Rumple-Gold wheels, ready to walk away. He may be a prisoner, but he lacks for nothing, because he has faith.

He has _faith_!

"You have _what_?" the Black Star bellows, as if Rumple-Gold has just informed him he carries the plague. The demon, now shrunk to six feet, clambers to his feet, grabs his prey by the collar, spins him back around, yanks him in—and sniffs. His eyes widen with horror and his nose wrinkles with disgust. "Damn my eyes, you do! You let them corrupt you." He flings Rumple-Gold backward. "Demons, boy, you reek of it!" He raises his hands in a stop gesture. "Get away from me before you make me sick." And with an elegant, familiar wave of his hand, the demon vanishes.

Rumple-Gold awakens in a sweat, his sheets and pillow on the floor. He sits up, rubs his face.

A soft voice interrupts his attempt to gather his scattered wits. "Rumplestiltskin?"

He shifts in the bed. Adela is sitting at his spinning wheel, her hands folded in her lap.

"I'm okay." His tongue is thick, his mouth dry.

"Yes, you are."

* * *

He's never been to a christening before. In fact, the more he reads about the ceremony, the more he realizes just how far out on a limb Zoe and Bertie have gone for him. In most churches, Rumple-Gold would not be accepted as a godfather, for a multitude of reasons; but Zoe and Bertie's church happens to be quite open-minded (and, Bertie assures him, open-hearted) and after some heavy petitioning by the Weavers (excepting the doctor, who has never set foot in the church) the church leadership has given in. The pastor has been supportive of the idea from the beginning. Privately, she confesses to Bertie that she's convinced an angel whispered the words "Remember me when Thou comest into Thy kingdom" in her ear on the morning Zoe first came to her with the announcement, and from there on, the pastor has cited the story of the Penitent Thief as proof of the rightness of her decision.

After hearing this, Rumple-Gold gives Adela an accusing look; the messenger blushes and shrugs.

* * *

It's a tough go, Emma admits; they have no idea where Bae might have landed, they can't even be sure he came through the portal into this century. They have no idea what age he might be now—more than 14, probably, but less than 45, perhaps? They have no guesses as to what name he might be using or what occupation he might be pursuing, as "shepherd" appears not on the Bureau of Labor Statistics' list of modern occupations.

All she can report with certainty is that none of the official records in North America list a Baelfire. She keeps trying, though; her greatest hope lies with finding a police report or CPS report somewhere of an unidentified, non-English speaking adolescent with brown eyes and brown hair suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

Belle, Henry and Grace check the website every day. There is very little on the site, just the sketch, and Bae's description and name and his father's name, and the sad heading "Missing Child—Help Bring Him Home." Still, the site receives an average of two hundred hits per day, most from the United States, but surprisingly, a great many from eastern Europe. Belle's email box fills, but she's lucky if she receives one good prospect a week to pass along to Emma for investigation. She has, however, received thousands of promises of great wealth and undying love from exiled Nigerian princes.

Belle uses some of Rumple-Gold's great wealth to place ads in the major newspapers of the world. Her post-office box fills as fast as her email box; it seems the Nigerian princes read newspapers, too.

* * *

The construction of Storybrooke II has begun. Mayor James now divides his time between his city and his kingdom; his wife remains in Storybrooke, finishing out the semester as a teacher. Snow has decided that teaching is one part of Mary Margaret she will not give up, even after she and her husband resume the throne in Fairytale Land.

Henry, thrilled at the prospect of being a prince and a knight-in-training, wants to move to Storybrooke II when his grandparents do; so far, Emma isn't budging. This is her world; despite the bruising she's taken from it, she won't be parted from it. She has no desire to wear gowns and crowns and be curtsied to; she is a sheriff, a good one who's becoming a great one, and her work here matters.

So it is in many Storybrooke families. Some will break up over it; most will give in to the will of the strongest family member, and resentments will form, will have to be conquered for the family to remain intact. Some families will compromise and split their time between the two worlds. The curse has been lifted, but its filaments stretch far into the future. Rumplestiltskin, with all his powers of prophesy, had not seen so far. To be truthful, with Bae his only concern, he had not cared to. Rumple-Gold, however, regrets the division that his curse has wrought.

For Regina and Rumple-Gold, there is no relocation decision to make. Their prison is here. They will remain, and Waldo, Beretrude and Adela with them.

And of course Belle.

* * *

It's a warm mid-April day, and the church is barely half-a-mile from the hospital, so, after casting a barrier spell about the prisoner, Beretrude suggests they walk. Belle beams at her: to walk down the sidewalk, past other pedestrians and joggers and cyclists and skaters, in her new spring dress, her hand tucked into the arm of her beloved, in his gray three-piece suit, is a gift. Rumple-Gold pats her hand and they speak of inconsequential things that mean everything to them as they stroll, serene, almost normal.

When he and Belle arrive at the church, with Beretrude trailing unobtrusively, a picture flashes into Rumple-Gold's head. For just a nano-second he imagines his suit is a tuxedo and her floral print dress is instead a white gown with a veil. And then they enter the church, are greeted by Bertie, are introduced to Bertie's mother and the twenty or so guests. . . and then Zoe enters with the sleeping Chloe.

Their godchild. Rumplestiltskin at the peak of his power could never have conjured anything half as magical. In his long life he has danced at grand balls, witnessed royal coronations, but all of them together can't hold a candle to this.

Shannon Weaver, Bertie's mother, asks Rumple-Gold and Belle to sit with her in the front pew through the worship service; the christening will take place immediately after. Beretrude sits in the row behind. When the christening begins and the pastor calls the parents and godparents to the front, Beretrude leans forward to whisper to Rumple, "Do you feel Him? He's here." Her face glows.

The doubt falls away then. Evil he was, a prisoner he is, but surely this means Rumple-Gold is acceptable in the Master's sight as Chloe's godfather.

* * *

Outside his prison window, he can see robins bringing animation to the trees. Dandelions blanket the hospital lawn—some gardeners would poison them, but the hospital's gardener permits them to remain, and Rumple-Gold is glad. One can find beauty even in weeds.

His nightstand overflows. There's the gold-star tapestry, lying on the surface; there's an 8 by 10 professionally made photo of Belle; there's a framed photocopy of the sketch of Bae; and there is a cluster of framed 5 by 7's of the Coon Cats, Chloe and her parents and godparents, and Snow and Archie and other friends who stop by periodically to share their lives with him. There's even one of the Maserati, with Belle behind the wheel.

He remembers the pawnshop, cluttered with other people's belongings. He remembers the pink house, cluttered with junk that Gold supposedly bought. In both there were fine paintings and other objets d'art, worth a great deal of money, but worth nothing to him. He wouldn't trade a single snapshot from his nightstand for all the paintings in that shop.

One year ago today, he turned himself in to the Reul Ghorm.

Adela asks when she brings his breakfast, "Do you regret that decision?"

He doesn't hesitate. "No." And it's the unvarnished truth.


	55. Chapter 55

Fifty-Five

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were Jackson Browne's "For a Dancer" and "Lights and Virtues" (Jackson Browne and Robert Carlyle—long-lost brothers?)**

* * *

Days pass but there is no response from Moe. Belle never mentions him. Rumple-Gold knows that means Moe has not contacted her: if he had, Belle would have mentioned it. More than "mentioned"—she would have poured out her heart. Rumple-Gold is her closest confidant, her most trusted friend, and she, his.

He is, as Regina said, one lucky bastard. So for Belle's sake, he writes another letter to Moe, more impassioned that the previous one, and he shows it to her.

And then they talk frankly about Belle's childhood relationship with her father: Maurice's indulgences, his dependence upon her judgment, his extraordinary support for her education—not just in the subjects a noblewoman should know, but in the subjects a leader should know. And yet, despite all this, his overprotectiveness, and yes, his sexism, in expecting that this strong-willed, learned woman he had helped to forge would accept with bowed head the will of her society, would marry for political gain, would support and yet submit to her husband, would bear sons to someday lead the duchy.

"Every father fails," Rumple-Gold cautions her. "Every father disappoints. And so does every child."

She nods thoughtfully. "I read something a while back: 'We are all damaged children.'"

"Your father's transgressions are not so great that you can't have a relationship with him, are they?"

"Oh, no," she answers quickly. "But I can't bear it when he attacks you. He's trying to break us apart."

"You won't go to see him?"

"Not until he apologizes. Not until he accepts my decisions."

"That may never happen, sweet one," he says gently. "Do you really want to go through life without speaking to him?"

"No, of course not, but I won't put up with his constant attempts to pull me away from you."

"He's not likely to change his opinion of me, but if he keeps his complaints to himself, would you see him then?"

"I would, but that's a big 'if,'" she shrugs.

"Let me send the letter then, and let's see what happens."

"Nothing. That's what will happen." She sighs. "But thank you for trying."

* * *

"Do you ever dream you still have magic?" Regina asks.

"All the time," he admits.

"Are those happy dreams or nightmares?"

He considers. "Both. Sometimes both at the same time."

* * *

Archie has been visiting Regina on a daily basis. They're working through People's Exhibit A together, one page a time. Sometimes he has Regina write letters to her victims, even the ones long gone. At first the letters try to explain and defend and defer blame, but later they become apologies.

"Will we mail them?" she asks.

"Not yet."

"When?"

"When you don't have to ask me any more."

The stack of letters to Snow White and Mary Margaret fills an orange crate. The stack for Emma fills a shoe box. There's also a bundle for Henry. Watching these stacks grow, Emma develops a deep line between her eyebrows that never goes away.

There's a stack of letters for Rumplestiltskin and Gold, and another for Belle. On the days she and Archie compose these, Rumple-Gold is away, at lengthy planning meetings. Archie plans it that way. Listening to the other letters being composed, Rumple-Gold isn't so sure he ever wants to read the letters addressed to him; he's quite positive he doesn't want Belle to ever read hers.

* * *

A third of the population of Storybrooke has relocated to Storybrooke II. These are the builders, and they take the heavy machinery of this world with them: dump trucks, road graders, cranes, cement trucks. The builders will not be coming back.

When they lay the roads, they use magic taught to them by Rumple-Gold. But when they begin construction on the first building—by his advice, the hospital—he refuses to teach them the spells to lay foundations, raise walls. It's too dangerous, he tells them. One mistake and the entire structure could tumble. They argue and harangue; they've become spoiled by magic, he thinks, though the excuse they give sounds valid: they are in a hurry to get the buildings up so that their families can be brought over. The excuse sounds valid, that is, until Rumple reminds them it's exceedingly dangerous to use magic in a hurry. The builders revile him, but Rumple stands his ground. King James gives the builders a mighty dressing-down, and the complaints cease after that.

* * *

One morning Regina and Archie carry a stack of letters out into the meditation garden. Rumple-Gold watches from his window as Archie, with instructions from Regina, transforms the letters into hummingbirds and releases them into the sky.

When they come back inside, Regina explains that these were letters to the dead—to those who had died by her hand. She breaks into episodic crying spells throughout the rest of the day. Archie remains with her until exhaustion finally overtakes her.

Sitting on his bed, his back and head pressed to the wall, Rumple-Gold listens to her tears and self-incrimination, listens to Archie's murmurs of comfort. He listens because it's his fault too, and his own hot tears come too. He'd like to think the tears are washing him clean, as Regina's are for her, but he doesn't feel better afterward, even after Adela appears and kneels at his feet to hold his hand.

There's so much to atone for.

* * *

There's nearly always someone, in addition to Belle, popping in during visiting hours. Various citizens come and go, sometimes for magic lessons, sometimes just to talk. They've found Rumple-Gold is a good listener, and if they ask for it, he can usually produce practical advice. A few of them, looking back, realize Rumplestiltskin always had these qualities: in their desperation for magical solutions to their problems, they just never listened.

Sometimes James comes, at first briefly and briskly, and never during visiting hours, because he's conducting city business. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, threads of personal conversation work into the discussion, at first just little news items about his family, but eventually, admission of small problems in adjusting to family life. To be expected, Rumple says; most of us don't become fathers of a grown daughter overnight, let alone grandfathers at the age of-? Well, at such an obviously young age.

James never asks for advice, so Rumple never gives it. Upon occasion, the latter will reflect upon a similar case he knew of, in the old land, once upon a time, and then James usually asks how that case was resolved. It's not advice, of course not, merely remembrance. But sometimes James takes guidance or comfort from the remembrances of a very old man.

There's nearly always someone popping in during visiting hours, but never for Regina. For Regina, only Henry comes. The Coon Cats will listen to her stories, as they do Rumple-Gold's, but it's his cell they make a beeline to. Henry tries to get Grace and some of the other children to warm up to his adoptive mother, as he did with Rumple, but his attempts fail.

To them, Gold was a distant and cold figure, one they heard their parents speak of in dread, but someone whose threat was entirely financial: Gold may squeeze you for your last penny; Gold may evict you from your home, but he would do so quietly, leaning on his cane. He was never known to yell. The children have heard vague rumors of something Gold once did to the florist, but since they didn't it happen, the incident never registered with them. And Rumplestiltskin, they never knew at all. The baby-eater reputation largely remains forgotten with sundry other old legends.

Regina, however, is different. To the children, she runs hot to boiling. They've heard her shouts, her spiked heels clacking angrily as she chased a victim down; they've seen her whip through the streets with her Mercedes as if she would just as soon run someone over as go around them. The children remember Henry in the days before the curse broke as solemn, withdrawn, nervous.

It's easier to warm up to cold than to hot, so the children will not approach Regina. But the curse is broken: the children are growing, and everything is changing. Eventually they will forget they once feared her. She—and Rumple—will become simply those nutty old folks locked up in the basement.

Belle has to step over children to get to Rumple-Gold's cell in the afternoons; she has to wait for story time to conclude before she can speak privately to her beloved. At Regina's cell, there's no waiting. So one day, whether it's because of impatience at the waiting or demonstration of bravery and forgiveness, Belle doesn't step over the children: she settles in front of Regina's cell. She _pulls up a chair and sits_ in front of Regina's cell, as though she means to stay.

Rumple-Gold is so shocked he loses the thread of his story and has to start again.

"Good afternoon, Regina."

"Good afternoon, Belle."

"Granny tells me you're a gourmet cook."

"I was known to produce a passable soufflé or two in my time. Of course, it's been a year since. . . ."

"I've been learning to cook." Belle gets that funny, half-apologetic smile that Rumple-Gold adores. "Experimenting."

"That's what good cooking is, really," Regina offers. "Experimenting."

"I'd like to try something really challenging, _cuisine classique_. I found this book. . . ." She takes it from her bag and hands it to Regina. "What do you think?"

It's a step. For Belle and Regina both, a large step, Archie says; he's proud of them.

* * *

"Good morning," Adela greets him as she delivers breakfast. "And happy birthday." She sets the tray down on his bench, then gives him a hug.

Still bleary, Rumple-Gold takes a moment to catch on. "Thanks. Wait, what?"

"Happy birthday," she repeats.

"It's not my—I don't have a birthday."

She seats herself on one end of the bench and invites him to sit down on the other end. "Eat, eat," she urges. When he picks up his coffee mug, she corrects him. "Yes, you do."

"I mean, it's unknown." He blows on the coffee to cool it before taking a sip.

"No, it isn't. Not to us." She folds her hands in her lap.

It's never occurred to him before, but of course the messengers would know. They have access to all information. "My birthday," he muses. He glances at his calendar: April 14. "I have a birthday," he says to himself. "How old am I?"

She crosses her legs and contemplates. "Well, that's difficult to say." She licks her finger and air-writes some numbers.

Several minutes later, she's still calculating and he turns red. "Am I really that old?"

She chuckles. "It's not that. It's just that your old world calendar counts 300 days as a year, so the calendars don't mesh. Would you settle for a rough estimate?"

"Sure."

"Three hundred seventy-seven, plus or minus ten."

"I'm older than I thought," he mutters. He sips his coffee again. It really doesn't matter, of course; the question that matters is how long he will live, now that he's human. But he won't ask; if she knows, she's surely not permitted to tell, nor would it be a good idea for him to know.

"Eat, eat," she urges again, handing him a fork and napkin. "I hope you don't mind, but I told Belle about your birthday."

He smiles around his toast. There will be a party today, then.

"There's something Helewise planned to tell you today. She thought that if you heard it, you'd take encouragement from it."

He sets the toast down.

"She told you before, there's a plan for you. There always has been. It's been revised a few times, as free will has forced temporary changes in direction, but the destination has always been the same. You see, initially it was planned that you and Estrilda would be helpmeets. We had hopes that you and she would heal each other. But then _he_ intervened, sending that hack magician Wimarc to you, and we lost Estrilda."

"Did you get her back in the end?"

She picks at her fingernails. "We don't always win. Ultimately, we will, but there are many battles to be fought before the final war comes." She looks up. "It was originally intended that you and Estrilda would establish yourselves as successful merchants, you with your artistry, she with her financial acumen. You were to be role models of the emerging middle class. You were to raise four children, teach each one to read and figure sums and to be people of good character. Your eldest was to become a healer. The second was to be an artist, like you, except her work would be in paint. The third was to be an ambassador who would forge a lasting treaty with the ogres. And the fourth was to be a holy man."

Three hundred seventy-seven years (so old!) of living have exposed him to pretty much everything, or so he had thought until this moment. In his years as a salesman and a dealmaker, he's learned to recover quickly from unexpected news and to hide his feelings completely. But this news he can't process. He frowns at her, not understanding; then suddenly he understands and still he can't digest the news; and then it's finally moved through his ears to his heart and at last to his brain, and his body locks up, his features freeze. She waits patiently until he starts to function again. "Four. . ." It's a blow to the gut; it knocks the wind out of him. He was to have been a father of four. Four lives were to have issued from his marriage with Estrilda. Four little ones would have climbed into his lap, as Bae did, begging for stories. Four little ones would have trailed after him, as Bae did, along the dusty road leading to the marketplace. Four little ones would have kissed him with sticky little mouths, clutched his big hands with their muddy little hands, would have looked up at him with their big adoring eyes. Would have grown into strong, talented men and women. Would have brought new little ones to sit in his lap. Would have loved him to his dying day.

He draws in a shaky breath. "Fine men and women, all. Were there—names for them?"

"Baelfire, of course. Leicia, the ambassador. Saer, the holy man."

"And the artist?"

Her eyes join his. "Adela."

Dumbstruck, he stares into her large brown eyes and sees himself. "Adela," he echoes. "You. . . you are my daughter?" He remembers that, after first meeting her, he had thought she reminded him of someone.

She shakes her head. "I was never born."

"Because. . . I didn't do what I was supposed to. I didn't take care of Estrilda."

"_No_, Rumplestiltskin. Because the Deceiver brought power-lust and fear into the life you had with Estrilda." She squeezes his hand comfortingly. "You and she were only human, and very young. We decided you should hear this, not so that you would feel guilt or regret, but so that you would know that the Master has had plans for you, from the moment Ernald lured Nicola into the woods and you came into being. The Master's plans for you have changed in the detail, but not in the intent, as your free will and others' have caused circumstances to change. But how much you mean to the Master, His love for you, has never changed, not even when you took evil upon yourself.

"Your life, Rumplestiltskin, has value and purpose. You have been loved, far more than you can imagine, every second of that life, and will be loved long after your life is over."

"But you—because of the decisions Estrilda and I made—"

She laughs. "Do you think I didn't get what I deserved? The Master looks out for us too. It's true we didn't have _your_ love and guidance, but we had the Master's, and He wrote new plans for all of us, me and Leicia and Saer and Baelfire."

"Leicia and Saer, are they also—like you?"

She nods proudly. "We work for the Master. Someday you'll meet them. Leicia is a masterful swordswoman. She fought at the battle for Regina's soul."

"Was she here? Did I see her?" He struggles to recall the faces of the messengers as they stood just a few feet away, their swords blazing.

"She was here. There was no time for introductions, I'm sorry to say. Someday, I'm sure you'll meet her. Saer works in another realm, a counselor like Walderan and Beretrude and me. We are all proud of the work we do, and we are happy. Baelfire, I have never met, but he is in this realm. . . and Rumplestiltskin, you will be reunited with him."

He bows his head so that his would-have-been-daughter can't see his tears. He can't speak, so he just nods his gratitude.

"Don't worry," she smiles. "The Master knows how you feel. He's a father too."

He clears his throat. "Thank you. That was the best birthday present I've ever had."

She chuckles. "I do believe it's the only birthday present you've ever had." She gathers the breakfast dishes, but pauses to study him. She says softly, "I would have been proud to call you my papa." She leaves him to his thoughts, his thousands of new thoughts.

He will never again look at Adela or himself the same way.

* * *

When Belle arrives, bearing gifts and friends and food, the party begins. Even Regina offers congratulations and joins in the singing of the traditional birthday song. He's never had a party thrown in his honor. He accepts their good wishes and ducks the teasing question of his age—everyone knows he's older than anyone else in Storybrooke, but by just how much, he won't say; he refuses to be a dinosaur.

But he is, in a way, he supposes, a father of four now.

There's no opportunity to speak to Belle in private, so he keeps his secret for another day.

When the opportunity arises and he finally tells her his news, she's rendered speechless. She stares at him, stares at Adela. At last she finds her voice. "The choices we make. . . Who could have guessed, how deep they go? What a difference to the world those four children could have made."

"The loss, I think, is to me and Estrilda. The Master's made good use of the children's talents. They are making a difference in the world."

"Are you excited?" She asks. "Someday you'll meet them. And Baelfire—you'll be seeing Baelfire again!" She leaps to her feet. "I'd better go check my email. There could be a message from him right now!"


	56. Chapter 56

Fifty-Six

He awakens in the middle of the night. A sliver of moonlight leaks through his window; an overhead emergency light cuts a pale path across the hallway. He clutches the bars of his cell. For the first time, at this moment, he fully feels the effects of being a prisoner. With the news his would-have-been daughter has shared, he now feels trapped. He tightens his grip on the bars, and then his teeth grind and he squeezes the bars in utter frustration.

He should be grateful. He should be patient. He should trust that Bae is safe and well and not too far away. He should be at peace in the knowledge that he will see his long-lost son someday, perhaps any day now. And he is all those things, but he's also ready to climb the walls and hang from the rafters and shout, because he's waited so long for Bae he can't bear to wait another day, and because the life he was supposed to have, the family he was supposed to have, never happened.

It's all his fault, _all_ his fault.

He begins to pace, and he begins to talk, frantically, whispering, so he won't alert Emma and won't wake Regina. He thinks he's talking to himself, but when he listens to the words that are pouring out, he realizes he's talking to the Master. When, at dawn, he drops into his arm chair in exhaustion, he finally stops talking. In the hour before the wake-up call, his mind is finally still and the prison is so quiet he can hear the clack of Emma's computer keys. He can hear his own breath, slight and even.

And then something else. He hears a low voice deep within his mind, deeper even than the Dark One's. The voice is neither male nor female, betrays no age or accent. It just is.

It says, _Lay your burden at My feet._

* * *

The next morning, Archie is looking tired and frazzled as he leaves Regina's cell for Rumple-Gold's. The prisoner studies the psychiatrist as he rubs his eyes and turns a page in his notebook. When Archie finally looks up, Rumple-Gold shakes his head. "How many clients do you have now, Archie?"

"Why?"

"I'm calculating. How many, since the curse broke?"

"Well, a lot of people are struggling. . . ."

"Twenty? Thirty?"

"Most people only need a few visits. They already know what they want; they just need someone to validate what they're feeling."

"Do you see clients on Saturdays?"

"Yes, of course."

"And Sundays?"

"There's a lot of need right now. What are you getting at, Rumplestiltskin?" Archie adjusts his glasses on his nose. Rumple-Gold knows full well those glasses don't need adjusting; it's a nervous habit.

"You won't be much good to them if you exhaust yourself." Rumple-Gold reaches into his jeans pocket, and then he remembers. After more than a year, one would think he would have gotten used to the fact that he no longer carries keys or a wallet or a phone. "Archie, if there was something I needed you to do, would you do it?"

The psychiatrist raises an eyebrow. "I suppose it depends—"

"Archie, do you trust me?"

Hopper starts to make a note in his little book, but it's only a pretense to cover his nervousness and they both know it, so he closes the notebook.

"We've been talking nearly every day for a year now. You've asked me enough questions and taken enough notes to write an encyclopedia. So after all that, you must have an opinion: can I be trusted?"

Archie considers it. "Believed, yes, always; even when you were the Dark One, you didn't lie but you did nothing to correct others' misinterpretations. Nowadays, yes, you can be trusted, I'd say, but you can't always be understood; you're still quite the poker player, Rumplestiltskin."

"I'm working on that, Doctor Hopper." A small smile flickers in the prisoner's eyes.

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm asking you to trust me enough to do something for me. For all of us, actually; all of your clients. Tonight, Belle will come by your apartment with a map and a key to a cabin in the West Woods. You'll find canned goods, hot water, air conditioning, and a pair of fishing rods hanging above the mantle. Do us this favor, Doctor Hopper: go there Friday night and don't come back until Sunday night. Turn your phone off. Sleep. Eat. Go fishing."

"I'd have to cancel—"

"Then cancel. Appointments can be rescheduled. Life can't."

"I'll think about it." Hopper's fiddling with his pen. Rumple-Gold knows that means he won't think about it. Never mind: tonight Rumple will send in his star player and she'll persuade him. "Now, Rumplestiltskin, shall we begin?"

Rumple-Gold raises a finger in a stop gesture. "One more question. You have a past life to deal with too. Who do you talk to?"

"Well, I—"

Rumple-Gold settles back in his chair. "Jiminy, do you miss the old world?"

An hour later, Dr. Hopper rises and pockets his notebook. He hasn't written a word. He's wondering what just happened: how he became the patient in this therapy session. He's also wondering if the bait and tackle shop will be open Friday night.

* * *

The pink house has been on the market for six months now, but not a single offer has come in. Belle and Rumple-Gold drop the asking price well below the house's value; still, there are no takers. There are plenty of lookie-loos who are curious to see inside Mr. Gold's home, but, as the realtor points out, with half the local population planning to move when Storybrooke II has been completed, it doesn't make sense to buy right now.

So Belle finds another way. With the orange cat happily but awkwardly sprawled across her beloved's shoulder, she suggests it. By rights, she doesn't have to ask his permission: he can never return to the house, so it's hers, morally as well as legally, to do with as she sees fit. But she does ask, and not only because he was the house's prior owner: she asks because they're a couple, and she wants him to feel that, despite their circumstances.

"Well, you know Snow and James have been living in Snow's old place, and Emma and Henry have been living in that little apartment above the Fish & Chips. They're on opposite ends of town. It's a real hassle for Emma when she works the night shift and leaves Henry with Snow. It's six a.m. when she picks him up and she has to wake him, and then he's sleepy in school."

Rumple-Gold nods. Henry is sometimes sleepy during the 3:00 visits. "What do you propose, Belle?"

"They were quite comfortable in the house, before. I propose a house swap, along with a rental agreement. What they'd pay me in rent for a four bedroom house would be less than what they're paying for two separate apartments." She shows him a lease she's written. Belle has proven herself an astute businesswoman: the rent she's asking is appropriate for the house, in this current market.

As he gives his approval, he admires how well she's adapted to this world. More to the point, he's relieved at how well she's adapted: when people start moving to Storybrooke II, perhaps she won't regret her decision to remain here, to be with him.

She's a prisoner too, because of a few choices he made nearly four hundred years ago. She serves his life sentence.

* * *

Archie is sporting a tan.

When Rumple-Gold comments on how well it looks, Archie says it's due to fishing and long walks in the woods. He uses the cabin a couple of weekends a month now, leaving his notebook and his phone behind. He seldom catches anything, but he doesn't care.

And he's taking tennis lessons. He's even thinking of dating his tennis instructor, the former Mary Mary Quite Contrary, who now goes by Madge and has given up gardening. Trouble is, he's rather inept at the whole dating thing, he admits. Rumple-Gold chuckles. "Join the club." And he refers Archie to James for advice.

* * *

That night after lights out, he stares at the stars and thinks about how much more than cowardice he's exhibited in his decision-making. Cowardice is understandable, given his background; greed, stupidity and cruelty are not. He wonders if his entrapment of Belle, both in the old world and here—for he has lured her, and continues to do so—is a result of those deep character flaws.

He thinks of everyone in Storybrooke, from the toddler Alexandra, the first baby born in Storybrooke—the first true Storybrookite—to Granny, and everyone in between, all of them damaged, and the generations to come, damaged, because he wouldn't let of that dagger. . . because he stole the dagger in the first place. . . because he wouldn't ask the Blue Fairy to help him. . . because he didn't reach out to Estrilda when she needed him. . . because, because, because.

All this damage from one source. Rumplestiltskin is the hand grenade thrown into the Christmas parade.

_Lay your burden at My feet. _

"I don't know how," he answers.

_One page at a time_. As Regina does with Archie.

In the morning he asks Emma to send a request to the courthouse. Two days later, she brings the answer to his request: a copy of the list of crimes he gave to the Reul Ghorm on the day he surrendered himself. It's five hundred pages long.

One page at a time, one day at a time. Each evening before lights-out he studies one page, reliving the evil described there, seeing and feeling it all again. And when he has relived the evil, he tears the page from the document, holds it in the open palm of his hand and offers it to the Master. Each evening at lights-out the Master takes the offering from his hand. One page at a time, he lays his burden down.

* * *

Weeks pass and Moe attempts no contact with his daughter. She hears of him through others: grocery-store checkers, mechanics, Ruby. They report that he's always alone, always sullen. Once Belle sees him at a mini-mart, pumping gas. She bites her lip and swings the Maserati around the block. She has no idea what she'll say to him when she catches up with him, but she's going to try: here, on the street, where he can't slam a door in her face or hang up on her. But when she pulls into the mini-mart, he's gone.

On the other hand, there's been some movement on the father front for Bertie. Dr. Weaver is still hiding out in his den and his hospital, but he did ask to read Bertie's thesis about animal rehab programs in prisons. When he handed it back, he made no comment. "At least he's beginning to show an interest," Bertie speculates. "I think."

"And Chloe? Has he shown an interest in Chloe?"

Bertie shakes his head sadly. "I don't get it, Rum. I mean, I understand he's not the warm and cuddly type, but who could resist this face?" He points to the photos on Rumple's nightstand.

"No even me," Rumple says, "and everyone knows I'm a first-class bastard."

"As me dear old Irish granny would say, 'Go on with ye, laddie.'"

"Well, I did say 'first-class.'"

Bertie frowns. "Emma told me about your son. I hope you find him, Rum. If raising him gave you half as much a kick as raising Chloe's done for me. . . well, I hope you get him back, that's all."

"Me too, Bertie." Rumplestiltskin cringes to learn that his secret's been shared; his privacy's been violated and now one of his many vulnerabilities is known to another. But Gold points out the whole secrecy thing's pointless now. After all, he lives in a cage that can be seen through. The only privacy he has is in the shower. In this cage he's a sitting duck, his only weapons his own two hands. He's dependent on others for his survival. So what difference does it make if Storybrooke learns about Bae? Besides, it's Bertie that Emma's told; Bertie, the father of his goddaughter; Bertie, one of his hired protectors; Bertie, the good kid. So Gold squelches Rumple's protests, then trumps Rumple. "You know Emma's been searching government records; Belle's got the Web and the newspapers covered. If you happen to have any ideas for another approach, let us know, huh?"

"Tweets," Bertie guesses. "One tweet can crisscross the planet in a matter of minutes, if you find the right audience."

"Who would that be?"

Bertie grins. "Moms. Zoe's connected to a couple of stay-at-home moms groups. She's got online BFFs in seventeen countries. Kids are their passion."

"Baelfire may not be a kid any more. He could be in his forties."

"The not-knowing complicates matters," Bertie admits. "We'll assume he's an adult, go that route first. We'll use his birthday as an identifier. OK if I ask Zoe to send out a couple of tweets?"

He wonders if Snow finds it as amusing as he does that message delivery by bird is practiced in this world too, except here the birds are electronic. He will ask her about it, when she visits next. "Go ahead, Bertie, chirp away."

* * *

The Deceiver was right about one thing: Belle does hold a yard sale. Gold collected too much stuff—most of it, stuff he never used or even took to the shop to sell—and it won't fit into the two-bedroom apartment. Her yard sale continues over a month, but she unloads very little: just as no one's buying houses, no one's buying stuff. At last she donates the furniture to the Storybrooke II building project. It will remain in a warehouse on this side until houses are built on that side, at which time it will be transported.

At last, she moves. The Coon Cats and the Charmings assist. She brings photos of her new place, which she's painted and decorated and refurnished—but not, Rumple-Gold is pleased to see, with Cindy Crawford furnishings.

* * *

Baseball season comes and goes. A new semester starts at school. As they clatter down the stairs to Rumple-Gold's prison cell, they complain about their burdens: how much homework they have, what a tough grader the new teacher is, how hard the assignments are. Their complaints are a backhanded way of bragging—of showing off their progress. They are a year older, a year closer to adulthood, and they measure their growth not only in inches but also in increments of responsibility. Rumple-Gold understands and encourages this way of charting growth; it was the same with Bae. In a couple of years, they will start driving cars, working part-time jobs, dating; a new litter of Coon Cats will arrive. That's just life.

At last, it's life they're living, not limbo.

* * *

The search for Bae has slowed, not because Emma and Belle have lost enthusiasm, but because leads have trickled and sputtered nearly to a halt.

Rumple-Gold is unfazed when Emma admits the truth. He has it on high authority that Bae will be found.

* * *

On Bae's Day—October 2, by this world's calendar—Zoe and Chloe drop by. They've come to pick up Bertie; they will be flying down to Florida for the weekend, for Zoe's parents' anniversary. While Zoe and Bertie finalize their plans, Rumple-Gold plays with Chloe.

Belle finds the two of them on a blanket on the floor. Rumple is on his knees, barefoot; his socks are on his hands, and the socks are conversing with each other and the baby. Chloe knows what's what: she keeps trying to yank the socks off Rumple's hands so they can be placed properly on his feet, but the socks squeal and hide from her.

Surreptitiously, Belle takes photos with her smartphone. When April 14 comes around again, she will have these photos blown up into posters and will plaster the posters around the prison.

That's what she admits she intends, anyway, but she's not laughing when she shows the photos to her beloved. He refuses to blush, anyway: silliness is a privilege granted to the very old as well as the very young.

"Rumplestiltskin," she begins, choosing her words carefully, "you really love kids, don't you?"

He shrugs. "Sure."

"Didn't you ever want more? I mean, why did you stop after Bae?"

The game is over. He allows Chloe to pull the socks from his hands. He stretches his legs out so she can reach his feet, and the toddler tries to replace the socks, leaving some of his toes exposed. "On the day Bae was born, army recruiters came though our village. I was caught in the draft. By the time I returned, Estrilda was gone."

Belle falls silent. She comes into the open cell and seats herself on the blanket, joining in on Chloe's efforts to re-sock her godfather. When the task has been completed and Rumple wiggles his now warm toes, Belle takes the baby onto her lap. Now it's Rumple's turn—he swipes her phone from her tote bag and takes pictures.

"Sometimes I wonder," she says pensively, "what if I hadn't left the Dark Castle?"

He returns the phone to her bag. He can't look her in the eye.

"Would we have had children, Rumple?"

He answers so softly she can barely hear him. "Perhaps. But it's best that we didn't, considering what I was then. The children may not have been human."

"You're not that now." When he doesn't reply she tilts her head, encouraging him to look at her. "Is it too late?"

"Raising a child alone. . . it wouldn't be fair to you or the baby," he points out. "Or me."

She adjusts Chloe in her lap. "No, I suppose it wouldn't be. Besides, there are the obvious logistics problems." She sighs. "But we would have raised wonderful children together."

* * *

Storybrooke II's hospital is completed. Half the remaining population of Storybrooke I makes the journey across for the ribbon-cutting of the Ruth Memorial Hospital. They stay the weekend, sleeping in tents and eating venison James and Snow catch.

They discover they don't like the taste of venison, nor sleeping in tents. A few begin to doubt their decision to return here when Storybrooke II is completed. But everything will be different, Snow reminds them, once the power plant and the sanitation system have been constructed: they are next on the list.

The trip to Fairytale Land gives Belle an idea. Immediately upon return, she holds lengthy meetings with Jefferson regarding a business proposition. Some of the gossips just hear the word _proposition_ and see Jefferson's car parked outside Belle's apartment, and tongues wag.

Regina's hairdresser arrives to cut hair, both Rumple-Gold's and Regina's. As she's snipping away at Regina, she's yakking away, nervous because Regina's always been so picky and demanding. It doesn't seem to register with Flo that Regina is silent throughout the haircut; the stylist just keeps jabbering, all of it gossip, much of it malicious. Flo waves a comb in the direction of the other cell and lowers her voice. "Have you heard about Belle and Jefferson?"

Regina doesn't reply, but Flo charges on. "Well, they've been carrying on like rabbits. Every night, he's at her apartment, or she's at his, or they're having dinner at Dave's. If you ask me—"

"I don't," Regina says firmly.

"It's about time she found someone, you know, more appropriate than—" Flo waves her comb at Rumple's cell again. "So much younger, and so handsome, and almost as rich as—you know. I mean, what was she thinking, allowing herself to be duped by the likes—"

A remarkable thing happens: Regina defends Belle. Regina's shouts can be heard throughout the basement. "Out! You blood-sucking, belly-crawling little gossip monger! If I hear you've ever talked that way about Belle to anyone else, you'll face my wrath!"

Flo vacates the prison immediately, leaving her scissors behind.

Waldo wanders over to Regina's cell. He pauses to wink at Rumple-Gold, then enters Regina's cell. He examines her half haircut with a grunt, picks up the scissors and finishes the job. He's sawing and chopping but Regina doesn't care. She calls to her neighbor, "You didn't believe any of that crap, did you, Rumple? Flo's always been full of it. If she wasn't such a good stylist I'd have fired her long ago."

"No, I don't believe any of it." And he doesn't, not for a second. No one will shatter his faith in Belle, not even Rumple-Gold himself.

* * *

Halloween—the Coon Cats don't dress up in costumes any more; they're too grown up for that. Belle's birthday—Emma permits Rumple-Gold access to his bank account so he can order a cake and buy her a gift, a pair of sapphire earrings for her newly pierced lobes.

Thanksgiving: Belle and Archie prepare the feast again. Archie brings a guest: his former tennis instructor (he gave up after the fourth lesson), now girlfriend Madge. Belle brings a guest: Jefferson. But Rumple-Gold refuses to respond to Regina's raised eyebrows, and his trust is validated, for during the expression of thanks with which the diners start the meal, Belle leaves no doubt about the status of her relationships: "First of all, I'd like to say I'm grateful for all of you for making me feel welcome here every day. I'm grateful for my new goddaughter; she's such a treasure! I'm grateful for Emma and all the help she's giving us to find Bae. I'm grateful for Archie, who's made it possible for me to stand here today, and Jefferson, for unlocking the door and sending me to the mysterious Mr. Gold. More than anything else, I'm grateful for Rumplestiltskin, who brings me joy and strength. You are the light in my life, always and forever."

This year, even Regina participates in the expression of thanks. Her list includes Henry and Archie, the guards, of course, and to everyone's surprise, Emma, Rumple and Belle—and Helewise.

By contrast, no one is surprised by Rumple's list. He wonders if perhaps he's been wearing his heart on his sleeve this year; he's become so predictable. But Gold believes it doesn't matter; secrets keep people apart.

Midway into the meal, Belle makes an announcement, and then all those evening meetings with Jefferson are explained. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to announce the upcoming opening of a new business venture. As of March 1, just in time for the vacation planning season, Connected will become the Spinning Hat Travel Agency, Belle French, proprietor; Jefferson Hatter, tour guide. Offering guided tours anywhere in this world and Wonderland, and coming soon: tours of Fairytale Land. See the world in a weekend, via Jefferson's portal-producing hats. The perfect tour for those who are too busy to travel the old-fashioned way; the solution for those with a tendency toward seasickness and jet lag. Ten percent discount for those who book within the first 30 days of our grand opening."

Over the applause, she leans into Rumple. "So what do you think? Will it fly?"

He salutes her with his cup of cider. "Congratulations, sweet one. I think you've found the next big thing. My Belle, always ahead of the curve."

"I am happy," she assures him when they are alone later. But he catches her staring at the photos on his nightstand, the photos of Zoe and Chloe and Bertie. Especially, the photos of Chloe.

* * *

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were John Denver's "Zachary and Jennifer" and "For Baby." Coming up in future chapters: a change of mind (but not heart) for Rumple; the founding of a new dynasty.**


	57. Chapter 57

Fifty-Seven

Belle and Jefferson buy radio ads, television commercials, newspaper ads, a professionally designed website—but they learn the greatest marketing tool is a child. Specifically, Grace.

In January, as a trial run for the Spinning Hat Travel Agency, Jefferson takes Grace on that long-promised vacation to Wonderland. Jefferson's just glad to spend time with his daughter and get out of the snow; Grace is eager to experience for herself the non-stop fun that Papa and Rumple-Gold have described to her. They're gone just a weekend, so that Grace won't miss any school, but they come back with a hundred photos, which Jefferson loads onto the website. Some of them he has blown up into posters for the office. He adds an irresistible caption: "Free rides, free food, free fun." Belle prices the two-day tour at $200 per adult, $100 per child.

By February, people are stopping Belle in the street and the grocery store to ask how soon they can sign up. She starts a waiting list.

The Wonderland tours fill immediately and Belle has to hire a second tour guide. By April, Storybrookers are clamoring for weekends in Paris, Rome, London and Hong Kong. Belle has to hire two more guides, both multilingual: she hires University of Maine students, working them weekends only.

In the fall, Jefferson adds Neverland and Oz to the repertoire. He and Belle are careful to limit the number of tourists they transport, and they require the tourists to travel in groups: they don't want anyone lost or hurt, nor the places they visit to be spoiled.

At the end of the year, they have not only recouped all their starting costs but have made a 12% profit. Belle knows how amazing this is: she's read the books about business start-up. She renews Gold's subscription to the _Wall Street Journal_ and reads the articles with him.

* * *

Something else happens as a spin-off of Spinning Hat tours: the freer they feel to explore this and other worlds, the closer Storybrookers feel to Maine. For the first time they're connected with the rest of the planet; when they travel, passports in hand, they are identified as Americans. Very gradually, the travelers begin to think of themselves that way, and Storybrooke begins to feel more like home.

Some of the travelers, as they share with their Storybrooke neighbors their photos and their travel trinkets—little bottles of French perfume, Swiss chocolate, miniature Big Bens—begin to ask why move to Storybrooke II. Why not stay here and just vacation in the old homeland? For that matter, now that they've seen Paree, why travel to Fairytale Land at all? What's that world got that this one doesn't? Some of the travelers even ask why their taxpayer dollars are being spent to develop Storybrooke II.

Over the next two years, even as building progresses apace in Fairytale Land, Old Storybrooke experiences a resurgence. It's not strong enough to call a boom: outsiders have not started moving in yet—by the residents' wise choice, for what would Old Storybrooke become if the rest of the world learned the locals possess magic? But with fewer ex-Fairytale Landers planning to return, Old Storybrooke's housing market is strengthening, residents are spending more, and a few new businesses—encouraged by the Spinning Hat's success—are going up.

The Storybrooke Chamber of Commerce names Jefferson and Belle "Small Business Owners of the Year."

Mayor James, in private, calls them a problem that only worsens as even Snow develops second thoughts about moving to Storybrooke II. He can't sway her with the argument that back at home she'll be a queen; here, she's just—then he realizes what he's saying, two seconds too late to duck the potholder she throws at him. _Just_ a teacher?! How can he say _just_ a teacher? James may be building a community, but a teacher builds _minds_.

Precisely nine months after this argument, Snow gives birth to a bouncing baby boy. A poll taken by the _Storybrooke Mirror_ on the same day shows only 31% of residents intend to move back to Fairytale Land, down from 72% a year ago.

Mayor James, in private, admits he's among the doubters. Now that he has a newborn to consider, the conveniences of this new world—and especially the opportunities for higher education—seem more appealing. When Snow asks him which he'd rather see hanging on his son's wall—a dragon's head or a sheepskin from an Ivy League university—that decides it for him.

(As she relates this tale to Rumple-Gold and Belle, she tries not to smirk, but when Rumple-Gold is momentarily distracted by the bouncing baby in his lap, Belle gives Snow a high-five.)

(When, a day later, James relates this tale to Rumple-Gold, he openly smirks at the clever way he led his wife into deciding to stay, and Rumple-Gold gives him a thumbs-up. It would've been a high five, except the movement would have awoken the sleeping baby in his lap.)

By the end of his third year in prison, Rumple-Gold too is beginning to wonder: maybe the curse, in the long run, was not a horrible thing for everyone. Now that families and friends have reunited, some people are gradually letting go of their anger over the past and are concentrating on the present and the future. Hope, Snow says, is so much more powerful than anger.

She is allowing Belle to feed Jimmy his bottle. Rumple-Gold tries to listen—it's quite an interesting psycho-sociological shift they're observing—but his eyes and his mind keep wandering to Belle, with that baby tucked into the crook of her arm. Or maybe a more accurate statement would be that baby, with Belle wrapped around his little finger. Either way, it gives a man pause.

A few Storybrookers openly admit their current lives are better than the lives they lived in the old world. Most of these were originally unmarried laborers, servants or peasants: some of them are still laborers or servants—mechanics, custodians, wait staff, house cleaners—but here, they earn minimum wage or better and have dental plans. Some of these folks have married since the curse broke: Jacob the cobbler, for instance, and The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe (now known as Francine, and she and Jacob are highly vocal supporters of Zero Population Growth).

All things considered, the curse didn't do too much lasting damage to about twenty percent of Storybrooke. Archie is one of these: he admits he's better off here; his life has more substance and meaning. He enjoys being a human in a way he never did in Fairytale Land. There, he was one of a kind, a human mind and soul in a cricket's body; here, can date. And he does, _lots_. Ruby says he's got the moves like Jagger. (Rumplestiltskin is a little hurt: he remembers when he was the one with those moves. Then Gold shows him a Rolling Stones concert video and he rolls on the floor laughing at the rooster walk. After that, Rumplestiltskin shifts his interest to Arrowsmith.)

Rumple-Gold has made it a subject of study, this past year; he asks the adults who come through—whether it's the new stylist who cuts the prisoners' hair or the custodian who mops the floor or the nurse who checks their blood pressure—if they're happier here than they were in the old world. Granted, it's hardly scientific, with such a limited sample for the study, but he begins to feel a little less guilty about creating the curse. Just a little. And he's feeling a little less guilty about other things he's done as well. His burden is lightening as night by night, the Master takes his crimes away, one at a time.

* * *

After hours upon hours of deep discussion of human psychology, drawing upon Bertie's book learning and Rumple's long years of experience, it's finally two syllables of baby talk that get through to Dr. Weaver: "Wa-pa."

Bertie is giddy with glee as he relays the story to Rumple-Gold and shares the photos. "So it's Chloe's first birthday, right? And we're at my mom's, having cake and ice cream. Some of the neighbor ladies are there too, making a big fuss, you know, and my dad just takes a slice of cake and pats Chloe on the head and wanders off to his den. Well, Chloe makes a huge mess, smears ice cream all over her high chair, like she's the next Jackson Pollock, and so Zoe washes her off and sets her down on the floor so she can clean the high chair. Well, next thing we know, Chloe's gone! She's been walking a little, but we had no idea how fast she is.

"By the time we caught up with her, she'd gone through the living room and into Dad's den. And then, get this, Rum: we find her in my Dad's lap. She's trying to pull his glasses off, but instead of yelling at her, he's talking baby talk to her, and she's answering him. She says 'mama' and 'dada' and 'baba'—but when we found her, she was saying 'grandpa' clear as day. Well, okay, it was more like 'wa-pa,' but we all knew what it meant. Well, he saw me and Zoe standing there in the doorway and right away he got up and handed Chloe over, and he mumbled something about dirty diapers, and he went over to his computer and started typing before we could say anything. But we know what we saw."

"The ice is broken," Rumple-Gold muses. "Congratulations. Won't be long before he's pushing her in a swing and teaching her to ride a bike."

"I wouldn't go that far," Bertie winces. "But it's another step."

"You'll get there, Bertie. Chloe will make sure you do."

* * *

There are still days, however. . . Rumple-Gold is content with his decision, and he doesn't need Adela to point out to him that he's making a difference now, in a way he never did: he has a sort-of position among the town's leadership; through his outreach (that's what Adela calls it, _outreach_, which makes him grin crookedly because how can it be called "outreach" when he's locked in a cell while he's doing it?) to children, he's impacting the future; he's a teacher of safe magic and a bit of a counselor to those who've discovered his listening skills. He has a place in the community, perhaps not the place the Master would have preferred, but he is making a difference.

Belle says she's proud of him for making the best of a bad situation, and always-frank Emma reports that Belle's association with Rumple-Gold is more a gain that a deficit. Of course there are those who hate Rumplestiltskin and those who hate Gold, and long after they've grown old and died, their sons and daughters will continue to curse those names, but then, there are those who are a little extra helpful to Belle for his sake. More often than not, when either of his names is mentioned on the streets, it's with respect or even affection. Archie reports this, with a sense of amazement: the psychiatrist can recall when the name Rumplestiltskin was avoided like the plague. Of course, that was when the imp had superhuman hearing and a habit of suddenly appearing when his name was spoken.

It's. . .not. . .such. . . a. . .bad. . . life.

There are days, however—early spring days when he and Regina both catch cabin fever—days when they resent what they're missing out on (city council meetings, Miner's Day and shopping for Regina; trips to the cabin, rent collection day, new music releases and driving that Maserati for Rumple-Gold). Worst are the days they realize just how much of their loved ones' lives they're missing out on, the moments of surprise and discovery and laughter.

There's the grand opening of the Spinning Hat, the ribbon being cut by Mayor James. There's Belle's first soufflé (a disaster which brings tears of disappointment to her eyes) and Belle's sixth soufflé (a triumph which brings tears of pride to her eyes as she shows it off to Regina). There's the auto repair class that Belle completes with a grade of A when she gives James' pickup a tune-up. There's the morning Belle opens the front door too wide and the orange cat streaks outside and goes missing—until 3:00 when Belle, head hanging in dread of how to break the news to her beloved, trudges to the hospital and find the cat at the locked door leading to the prison. After that, Rumple the Runt becomes known as Rebel Rumple.

There's Henry's first kiss (not with Grace, whose fathers are overprotective, but with Kylie, who's suddenly developed a crush. Now caught in a love triangle, Henry seeks advice from both his moms, then turns to his gramps and Mr. Gold for some man-to-man talk). There's the perfect game Grace pitches, with Henry catching, and later, the Coon Cats' trip to State, where they lose but hey, the #2 trophy's still mighty big. There's the sixth-grade science fair in which Henry wins a blue ribbon. There's Henry's first day in junior high school. There's Henry's discovery of his first chin hair, prompting a shaving lesson from Gramps.

There are mornings of fall leaves for children to build caves in, mornings of sparkling new snow for children to make angels in, mornings of rain for lovers to walk in, mornings of heat for lovers to make love in. Mornings in which to marry, to give birth, to grow old, to die.

* * *

In the third year of Rumple-Gold and Regina's incarceration, Bertie graduates from the University of Maine with an MS in Criminal Justice and a 3.4 GPA. The prisoners are not permitted to attend: it's out of town, and after all, it's not like Bertie is blood kin to either prisoner; he's their keeper, their friend. But he wears his cap and gown when he and Zoe and Chloe, who's now a little lady in her Mary Janes and Swiss dot dress, come to visit. Bertie sports the antique pocket watch Belle and Rumple-Gold have given him. He drives the new Toyota his in-laws and his parents have given him. When Bertie shows Rumple-Gold the video of the commencement ceremony, he apologizes for the shakiness of the image: "Dad's not too skilled with a camera." He waits, fighting back a grin.

Rumple-Gold slaps him on the back, then thinks better of it and pulls him in for a hug. "Congratulations, Bertie."

"I feel like I really _have_ graduated."

"Sounds like he has, too."

Bertie nods toward the little lady, who's sitting primly on a chair, taking tea with her mom and Belle. "It's all her doing. She won him over."

"If she can bring a grumpy old dragon to his knees, imagine what she'll do when she goes out into the world," Rumple-Gold muses.

Belle must have heard his remark, for she looks up from the Oreo she's dunking and exchanges a meaningful glance with him. He knows the meaning of that meaningful glance; he's thinking something similar: _Imagine what __our__ child could do in the world_. Or, knowing Belle, it's more likely _our children_. He looks away.

A month after graduation, Bertie receives a job offer in Connecticut. At the goodbye party, Emma makes a lovely toast and Regina makes a lovely speech about how much she admires Bertie and how happy she's sure the Weavers will be in Bridgeport. Belle holds Chloe on her lap the whole time. Although the child clearly thinks she's too old to be held, she's too polite to protest.

"How do your folks feel about the move?" Rumple-Gold asks Bertie in private.

"Mom's already bought a plane ticket for December. She says she's always wanted to see Connecticut at Christmastime, whether Dad comes with her or not. But we think he'll come." Bertie glances over his shoulder. "For Chloe, if not for me."

Rumple-Gold shakes his head. "For you, too. Any man would be proud to have you as a son, Bertie."

"Someday, I think he'll tell me that. I really do." Bertie offers his hand; Rumple-Gold shakes it. "I'm gonna miss our talks. You've been like a father to me, when my own dad couldn't." He leans forward to whisper, "And I know about the scholarships. You saved my bacon, Rum."

Rumple-Gold shrugs. "Just an investment in my own future. Who knows, the next scholarship recipient might come to work here." He clears his throat and stares at the floor. "You take care, Bertie. If you ever need anything. . . ."

"Oh, you haven't seen the last of us. Connecticut's not that far, and we've got a car now. Besides," he points to the iPad on Rumple's nightstand, "there's always Skype, Youtube, Flickr. . . ." He pauses. "Hey, Rum. . . marriage is great thing. Even if the circumstances aren't ideal, marriage is a great thing." He glances meaningfully at Belle. "I'm just sayin'."

The corners of Rumple-Gold's mouth twitch. "Yeah, marriage is a great thing."

* * *

Bertie is replaced by Leroy. He's left the Storybrooke II project to marry Astrid, who's left the convent. Leroy's still gruff and rough around the edges and he's not much for talking, but he'll play blackjack with Regina and teaches her to shoot craps. With Rumple he plays checkers; he refuses to try to learn chess.

The men—gruff Leroy and Mean Mr. Gold—find common ground in a baby. Astrid becomes pregnant two months after the wedding, and she delivers a boy she names Mike, "just because I like the name," she says. Leroy and Rumple-Gold talk about feeding schedules and cloth vs. disposable while Astrid allows Belle to cuddle Mike. Blushing with pride, Astrid suggests to Belle, "You really ought to have one of these yourself." And then she remembers to whom she's speaking and she apologizes.

Bertie sends emails and photos and videos. He promises they'll visit in the spring.

It's almost like losing a second son. Missing Bertie re-opens the Bae wound for Rumple-Gold. Emma and Belle are no closer to success in their search. Sometimes at night, as he continues to release his burdens one by one to the Master, Rumple-Gold feels his resolve crack and a shaft of despair leaks in. He asks the Master to take the ache away, just as He's taking the guilt away, but in truth, he's asking the Master to bring Bae back. Sometimes the Master answers; _have faith_ or _trust in Me_, He says.

One night, after a day in which both Jimmy and Mike have been brought for visits (Jimmy's sucking his thumb, Snow frets; can Rumple suggest anything for that? And Mike's teething and Astrid's not getting any sleep; any suggestions for that?), and after the Coon Cats have come by to introduce their new outfield and Henry's been by to show Regina his new haircut, which Kylie says makes him look so _manly_—on that night Rumple-Gold finds the waiting particularly hard. "I've turned myself in, I've fought off the Deceiver, I've made peace with my enemies and I'm serving my community," he points out to the Master. "What more do I have to do, before you bring Bae back to me? I'm a changed man, am I not? Why am I not yet worthy of him?"

The answer surprises him. _You are ready for him, but he is not ready for you._

Rumple-Gold sits down at his wheel, the tapestry in his hands. He can feel Bae's life force flowing through the threads. He resists the resentment and impatience that try to worm their way around his heart and try to choke it. He remembers what Snow said: hope is more powerful than anger. It's so hard, though, and it becomes even harder when Adela appears before him with tea and sympathy.

* * *

Regina asks to be permitted access to Rumple-Gold's cell. Beretrude allows it, and in a show of great trust, she leaves the prisoners alone to talk in private.

Rumple offers the queen his armchair, and he sits on the bench across from her. She holds a banker's box on her lap. For several minutes she searches for the right words; she settles for giving the wheel a little spin. "Seems like you've always had one of these. I swear, you must have been born with a spindle in your hand."

Rumple nods. "Everything else may change, but that's the constant in my life."

She allows him to see how nervous she is: the last time she was open with him, he was living in her castle and teaching her how to control her magic—and keep herself alive long enough to cast the curse. She presents him the box. She doesn't have to explain its contents.

He removes the lid and extracts the letter on the top of the heap. He holds it without opening it. "Regina, you have nothing to apologize to me for. Anything you think you've done against me, chances are, I set you up to do it."

She shakes her head and says simply, "Belle."

He drops the letter back into the box. "Yes. . . Belle."

"Let's start there. I manipulated her, took advantage of her feelings for you, her naiveté and innate kindness, to try to break your power, and when that didn't work I lied to you about her death to break your heart. I kidnapped, starved and tortured her to obtain information that would enable me to defeat you, and when that didn't work I brought her to Storybrooke as a nameless prisoner. I didn't even have a real plan for her. I kept her for my own. . . ego boost. Whenever you bested me, I'd go and look at her, just to remind myself I still had the upper hand. When I had her in my dungeon at the Glass Castle, every time I whipped her, or struck her, or yelled at her, or deprived her of food, I imagined it was you instead of her lying bleeding at my feet.

"Rumplestiltskin, you know I'm not that monster any more. You've watched me change. You instigated much of the change I've experienced. I don't deserve forgiveness from anyone, but I'm asking it just the same, in the name of my son and yours."

"The war is over," he agrees. "I forgive you, and I ask you to forgive me for all the times I manipulated you, all the evil I brought down upon you, for all the times I could have helped you but didn't because it didn't suit my purpose. Forgive me."

She offers her hand and he takes it. "The war is over."

After she leaves, he begins to read the letters. At first he thinks he's doing so because he owes it to her and he respects Archie's process; later, he understands that it's something he needs for himself, to let go.

A week later, he has read the last letter. As Regina watches from her window, Rumple-Gold and Archie walk out into the meditation garden. By Rumple's request and under his guidance, Archie turns the letters into butterflies and releases them.

* * *

Bundle by box, Regina's letters are delivered around town. Upon receiving hers and Henry's, Emma takes a week's vacation; she says bluntly she needs to think. When she returns there are a pair of new wrinkles between her eyes. She is back at work for several days before she speaks to Regina, and then it's only after she's talked to Archie. There's a layer of anger beneath her words, but she manages to say to Regina, "I. . . forgive you."

Henry's letters, she's screening and giving to him one at a time, with long talks afterward. Emma finds that Henry is more resilient than she expects. He gave his forgiveness three years ago, before Regina asked for it.

Gradually, visitors trickle in to speak to Regina. A few take advantage of her vulnerability: they shout at her and curse her, and Emma pushes them out. Some come simply out of curiosity; they want to know if Regina has really reformed, as the letters suggest, or if it's all some sort of plot. They go away befuddled. She's nothing like they remember her. And a few accept her apology. They are ready to move on.

The first of these is Snow. Emma takes Regina and Snow into an office upstairs so they can talk in private. They're gone nearly three hours. When Regina and Emma return, Emma locks Regina back up and busies herself at the nurses' station.

"How'd it go?" Rumple-Gold asks. He can't see Regina's face so he listens hard to her voice for clues.

She's been crying. She's also talked out; her voice is hoarse. "She forgave me. . . and then she asked me—" a sob interrupts. "Asked me to forgive her."

"Wow," Rumple whistles. "She's one for the angels."

* * *

Archie sits with Belle as she begins to read Regina's letters. The reading takes months: Belle can handle only a few paragraphs at a time. She needs help to manage the memories of the torture she'd suffered.

At first, Belle won't talk to Rumple about the letters; all her conversations are all about the present and the future, the things she can control. But on the day of Regina's meeting with Snow, as Belle and Rumple are alone with only the bars between them and Waldo occupied at the nurses' station, she finally shares a little of the contents of one of the letters—hesitantly, because she wants to protect Rumple as well as herself. He hides his face behind his hair as he listens. When the letter has been read, he rises and walks to his window and stares out, reining in his anger, summoning calm so that he can be strong for her. When he turns back around his eyes are kind. "Will you be all right, Belle?"

They both know he's really asking _Can you forgive Regina? _But they both know he doesn't need to ask. She will forgive. She must, for her own sake.

"You've always said that evil isn't born; it's made," she reflects. "I thought it would help me to hear about Regina before she made her deal with the demon."

He reaches through the bars to take her hand. "All right. . . ." And he tells her what he knows, beginning with the three-day-old in her cradle, the gold-skinned imp picking her up, careful to not to scratch her delicate skin with his black claws. As Belle listens, her expression is far-away; she's imagining the baby whose mother bargained for her, the child whose father failed to protect her, the teen who begged the imp to imprison her mother.

"She never had a chance," Belle comments. She heard much of this story in court, but she needs to hear it again, in words meant not to sway a jury but to assure a victim. When the story is over, she thanks him. There's an hour left of the visiting time, but she says she needs to think. She calls the cat, who refuses to vacate Rumple's shoulder and has to be passed through the bars and strapped into the tote bag. With a quick kiss she promises to return tomorrow.

In the late night, when he talks to the Master, instead of proceeding through another page in his book of crimes, Rumple asks for wisdom for Archie, so the psychiatrist can help Belle work through her trauma; he asks for his own anger to be taken away, so that he can live up to his promise to forgive Regina, and so that he can truly support Belle; and he asks for a comforter to be sent to Belle. "She's so special, you see," he argues—though he realizes it's ridiculous to argue; the Master knows and loves Belle with a purity that surpasses anything Rumple can offer. "You sent two angels to a corrupt old monster who didn't deserve a moment's notice from them. Surely Belle, who's done nothing wrong, deserves one of Your counselors too."

As he holds her photograph in his hands, he listens intently for answer, and when it comes, he's rocked back on his heels. _I sent her one of My own. I sent her you._

When he sleeps, he dreams of his arms around Belle, comforting her.

He dreams she's wearing white lace and he's wearing a tux. Hugo Boss, of course.

* * *

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were John Denver's "Potter's Wheel" and "The Flower that Shattered the Stone." Coming up: the Master whacks Rumple upside the head and Belle has to change her filing status on her income tax forms.**


	58. Chapter 58

Fifty-Eight

**A/N. As I promised, happiness is on the horizon! The spirit guides for this chapter were Kate Bush's "Love and Anger" (again, but it fits the theme) and the Monkees' "Sometime in the Morning."**

* * *

On the morning of his fourth birthday, Rumple-Gold awakens with a smile—and with his pillow clutched in his arms. His smile changes to a slight frown as two thoughts occur to him in quick succession: first, today he turns 381 years old (give or take a decade, according to Adela), and second, he's too old to be clutching pillows in his sleep. . . and having the sort of dreams he's been having lately.

He blames Belle's new scent for his dreams. Not the scent of a perfume, though he does enjoy the various floral perfumes she prefers, but rather the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla, for Belle has progressed to the pastry stage in her study of _cuisine classique_. The way she smells when she skips down those stairs at 3 p.m. every day, bearing samples of her latest kitchen experiments, makes him want to bury his face in her shoulder and kiss his way up to her ears, her cheekbones and finally her lips. Why a woman would spend hundreds of dollars on a manufactured scent when she could just raid her spice rack is beyond him.

Nevertheless, he can't wait for 3 p.m. There will be a party today and Belle has promised to bake his favorite flavor of cake: spice. Belle will smell especially delectable today.

Adela brings in breakfast. She's changed quite a bit, these past three years: she walks with longer strides, she holds her head up and looks everyone, even Emma, straight in the eye, and most importantly, she smiles often and jokes on occasion.

"Good morning, Addie," he welcomes her as he joins her on the bench.

As there usually are when it's her shift, there are two cups of coffee on the breakfast tray. She likes to sit with him as he eats; he likes her to sit with him. He'd never in a millennium say it aloud, but some mornings when he's still half asleep he imagines that they are sitting at a proper breakfast table and passing the plates back and forth, he and Adela, Baelfire, Saer and Leicia, and Belle. He imagines Saer and Belle would be chatting about books, Baelfire and Leicia would be talking politics or economics, and Adela would be sharing with her father her latest experiments in charcoal or ink or pastels.

And then he drinks his coffee and wakes up.

This morning, as in the previous birthday mornings, she bears a message for him. Although he can now hear the Master's voice clearly enough that he doesn't need an intermediary, she still delivers some of the messages, sometimes because they're lengthier, sometimes to aid him in interpretation, but sometimes just for the enjoyment of the communion. The birthday messages are always delivered thus, always celebrations of life and love.

"I have your birthday message from the Master," she says as he finishes his oatmeal.

He runs a napkin over his mouth and prepares to receive the good news. "I'm ready."

She waggles her finger at him, urging him to lean closer. Puzzled, he leans in—and she swats him on the back of the head.

"Ow," he complains, rubbing the offended spot. It doesn't really hurt, but it's certainly unexpected. "What'd I do to deserve that?" Truthfully, he can think of a few things, beginning with the volley of curse words he let loose last night when he stubbed his toe on the nightstand, and he was a bit overcritical of the way James was handling Jimmy yesterday, but for crying out loud, the way James was holding the boy, you'd think he was lugging around a football instead of a toddler.

"It's not what you did, it's what you didn't do," Adela explains. "And I second the motion. Here's the Master's message: 'Rumplestiltskin-Gold! What are you waiting for? I have sent you your helpmeet and she has shown you time and time again that her love is unshakeable. Your love for her has stood tests that no superficial love could survive. Surely you can see that she is yours and you are hers, and the bond between you will never break. Belle has made her vow to you: where you go, she has vowed she will go. She proves it every day without fail. Now when are you going to make your vow to her and ask Me to bless your union?'"

He stutters. "My—what? Do you mean—"

"That's exactly what the Master means."

"But I'm. . . here. For the rest of my life. I can't be any kind of a husband. I can't provide for her—"

"Belle's company showed a 14% profit margin last year. That's 9% better than your shop ever did. _She _could provide for _you_," Adela chuckles.

"I can't protect her—"

"How quickly you forget."

"Well, yeah, I guess she can protect herself. But I can't be there for her, helping her in the everyday things of life, making decisions with her, planning for the future—"

"No, but she's here for you. Every day, discussing the everyday things of life."

"I can't take care of her when she's sick, hold her hand when she's nervous, comfort her when she's sad-"

"So you would deprive her of all the things you can do for her, because of the things you can't."

"Well, no, but. . . ." He reddens. There's another big _can't_, something that would be deal breaker for most marriages, he thinks, but it's not something a father ought to mention to his would-have-been daughter, nor is it appropriate conversation for a human and a representative of the Master. "I can't be a _husband_ to her. We can never be together, in the way a husband and wife should be. . . ."

Now Adela's annoyed. She tugs on his collar, and when he leans forward again, she swats him again. "That one's from me. Rumplestiltskin! Do you think love so limited that it can't be expressed in any other way? Love is the most powerful of all forms of magic. Love is more powerful than death; it's more powerful than the life force itself. Oh, ye of little imagination! Show some faith. Make your vow."

His hand clutches the wheel; the wood gives him something solid and familiar to hold onto. "What church would marry us? I'm a slaughterer, a betrayer of innocents—what church would unite a sweet soul like Belle with the likes of me?"

He's grabbing at straws and she knows it. She spins his straw into gold. "You are _forgiven_. Didn't you believe the Master when He said as much? That means Rumplestiltskin the scourge exists no more. You're a new man, and there is a plan for you, and a plan for Belle too, that brings you together. But you're right. No church of man would bless your union. But the church of God will hear your vows, and the Master Himself will minister unto you."

Rumple-Gold works his mouth but no words come out, just a squawk.

* * *

He can see now how much sense it makes, how logical it is for him to fall one knee and propose—well, it's just common sense, isn't it? The one and only conclusion that can be drawn from the evidence presented.

In truth, Rumple-Gold has known since the moment the curse broke that he wanted to marry her. . . that he _should _marry her. . . and that she should marry him. She had made it so when, as her first words as herself in this new world, she declared, "I remember. I love you!"

Ah, but his life is not his own. He must ask permission even to propose in the way he wants to. So as Emma relieves Adela, and Adela gives him an encouraging punch on the arm, Rumple-Gold asks the sheriff to come to his cell. He hates this, that he must ask permission, as though he's a child asking to be allowed to play outside. He will not ask loud enough for Regina to hear. Not that he doesn't trust the queen to keep the secret, but it seems bad enough that anyone besides Belle will hear the news first; he certainly doesn't want to lengthen that list. He grinds his teeth. "Uhm, sheriff, a word in private, please?"

A cloud passes over her eyes as she punches in the code and springs the lock. She enters, closing the door behind her. "Are you okay, Gold?" She thinks he may be sick again.

"Yes, it's just—this is of a personal nature."

She moves close and he lowers his voice. "Sheriff Swan—"

"Now I know there's something wrong, if I'm not 'Emma' to you any more."

"Not wrong, no. I guess I'm nervous." He twists a length of newly-spun thread between his fingers. This thread is made of silk, and if all goes well, in a few months it will stitch together a wedding dress. "Emma, I, uh, I. . . well, I need a couple of favors. One's a pretty big one."

"Go on," she says slowly, folding her arms.

"The first is, tomorrow I'd like to take a walk in the garden with Belle."

She shrugs. "You do that already. How's that a favor?"

"I'd like a little. . .space. . . between us and Beretrude. You could put a tight barrier spell on me, or an ankle cuff, if you'd prefer something more solid. But I'd like to have three minutes in private with Belle."

At first she frowns and starts to shake her head, and then her expression clears and she peers closely at him, and finally she smirks. "I win! Mom and Ruby owe me fifty bucks."

He blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You're planning on proposing, right? "

"Yes, that's what I—"

She's the second woman in less than ten minutes to punch him in the arm. He wonders if all the ladies in Storybrooke got together and decided to start this new trend of punching guys in the arm. "So I win the pool. Mom had Christmas, Ruby had New Year's, but I had yours or Belle's birthday."

"You. . . were betting on when I'd propose to Belle?"

"We started two years ago. Man, you take your own sweet time, don't you?"

"What is it with ladies these days, gambling and punching people?" he mutters. "All right then. The second favor will come as no surprise: I'm asking a day's furlough, for the wedding."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're forgetting the honeymoon. Two days. You can't leave Storybrooke, of course, but I could fix it up with Granny for a night at the B & B, under a barrier spell of course."

His face brightens as he imagines a better choice. "My cabin in the West Woods. I'd like to have the honeymoon there."

"The wedding too, I'd think." Emma's eyes glaze—even the sheriff has a romantic side, it seems. "Beautiful. A sunrise wedding at the lake. The morning light sparkling on the water, a soft breeze rustling the trees, 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here.' Ohhh. . . " She sighs.

"I'll leave the wedding plans up to Belle. Can we have the cabin?"

"I'll have to talk to James and the Reverend Mother about it, but I don't see why not. You've never given us any cause for concern—except when you were pounding on death's door there." She starts to leave but pauses. "Hey, if I ever get married, can I borrow your cabin?"

* * *

Emma wastes no time—but in her excitement she raises her voice and spills the secret, so by the time she's finished with her phone conversations, four people know before Belle does that Rumple-Gold plans to propose. He just hopes none of them will let the proverbial cat out of the bag. With a prisonful of people likely to show up this afternoon for cake and ice cream (he's hoping for butter brickle or rum raisin), he'll have no chance to speak privately with Belle until tomorrow. If Emma so much as mentions fifty bucks to Snow, the secret will be out.

Emma first calls James. That conversation seems to focus entirely on logistics: James is opposed to allowing the prisoner to be taken out of town. "The entire security team will be on duty that day, fully armed—magic as well as guns," Emma dismisses his concern. "That's six of us." She lowers her voice, but Rumple can still hear her. "Besides, if I know Belle, she's not about to let a jail break interrupt her wedding."

James apparently shifts his argument to something Emma hasn't given thought to. She stumbles. "Yeah, well. . . .I think we'll have to play that by ear. I'll do some benchmarking, see what the other prisons do about that. I don't think you'll find it in the city ordinances, David. . . .Well, you've seen my quarterly reports to State. He's got a clean track record here. I trust-. . . . Yeah, David, I understand some people might object, but look, it's a common practice, right? Prisons deal with this all the-. . . .It's a health issue, a mental health issue, David, and I dunno, maybe a civil rights issue. . . . Well, look, if you were in his shoes, wouldn't it make you crazy if you weren't allowed to, you know—look, David, it's creeping me out to be talking to my father about granting conjugal rights to one of my prisoners, okay? How about if we just leave it here: you'll think about it, I'll do my research this afternoon and report to you tonight. All right?. . . . Yeah, bye, David."

The second call is to Mother Superior and goes much the same way, with even greater embarrassment on Emma's side as she discusses the future of her prisoner's sex life with a nun. The Reverend Mother seems to have some moral objections to permitting a lifer to marry. Emma's voice climbs until Regina can't pretend any more not to hear. "So congratulations are in order, then, Rumple?"

"Regina, I haven't asked Belle yet. Would you please be careful not to say anything to anyone?"

"I would have done that anyway, without the 'please,' but it's nice that you asked. Marriage is going to be a challenge, under the circumstances, but Belle's up to it. Good luck to you both." Her voice drops. "Don't let the hassles over rules and regulations distract you, Rumple. This is about true love; that's all that matters."

As soon as Waldo arrives for his shift, Emma grabs her keys and her red jacket—her fighting jacket. "I'm going to the convent," she barks at Waldo. "I may be late for the party."

"Oy, what have I started?" Rumple-Gold mutters.

"Oh, never mind," Regina remarks. "Emma loves a good fight, and this one's been some time in coming."

The party swings, led by Coon Cats of yesteryear and well as this year, Archie and baker Belle (bearing spice cake and rum raisin, and as she threatened—er, promised before, she has posters of her secret fiancé on his knees, playing with his socks). They sing "Happy Birthday" and the dreaded "How Old Are You," to which Rumple replies, "Well, since this is my fourth birthday. . . ."

At 4:30 all the goodies have been gobbled and the gifts opened (there's even a Hugo Boss tie pin from Regina, "just a bit of normalcy," she says). The children rush home for supper, though their appetites have been spoiled. Archie and Waldo clean up, giving Belle a few minutes with her beloved, time enough for a kiss that she thinks is a birthday kiss but that he knows is a pre-proposal kiss, their last kiss as singles. For all his worries that someone else would expose his secret, he almost does: the kiss makes him want to drop to his knees right then and there. Breathless, he says, "Belle, I have to ask you something."

"Of course, my love. What is it?"

"Will you ma—" he coughs and recovers. "Will you, uh, make another spice cake next week?"

"Sure." She gives him a final peck on the cheek, then glances at the clock on the wall. "It's five. Gotta go."

"Belle—" he grabs her arm. "Come tomorrow before your shop opens. Emma's permitting us a walk in the garden."

She looks askance. "All right. I'll see you tomorrow."

As he watches her go, Rumplestiltskin wishes for his leather pants and silk shirts, so he can be properly dressed tomorrow. Gold wishes for one of his suits and silk ties for the same reason. It's a far cry from the perfect proposal he wishes he could give her, but at least he has one ace up his sleeve: the clergy for the wedding.

Emma brings him his breakfast the next morning, even though it's her day off and she should be home resting. She has news that can't wait. "Okay," she sighs as she lets the silverware clatter on the tray. "I've got a deal to offer. Two days at your cabin, after we've searched it and removed any weapons: one day for the wedding, one day for the honeymoon. All six of us on guard at the wedding. No alcohol. We'll be armed, but I promise, you won't see the guns. We'll be dressed like normal wedding guests. I'll have a barrier spell on you for the weekend. The lake and the cabin, that's as far as you go. Any trouble and we haul your butt back here, even if you're in the middle of taking your vows." She pauses. "That was for David's sake. I told him I trust you. You've never given me any reason not to."

"Thanks, Emma."

"Then the rest of it. Once a month, twenty-four hours at your cabin. You and Belle, no guests. Same barrier spell, and you wear an ankle monitor. I know it'll be uncomfortable, but that's the Reverend Mother's requirement, not negotiable. If there's no trouble, after a year we'll talk about expanding it to a full weekend." There's pain in her eyes as she spells out the terms. She's not just embarrassed for herself, talking to a prisoner about his love life; she's embarrassed for his sake. The man who once owned Storybrooke is reduced to bargaining for his right to marry and spend time with his wife.

He reddens too and stares at the floor. Anger and humiliation battle for supremacy: Rumplestiltskin wants to smash furniture and blast this prison cell apart with a burst of magic. Gold wants to draw himself up to his full height, coolly evict Emma from his presence, and then use his cane to smash stuff. But he is neither Rumplestiltskin nor Gold any more: he's a new creature, one who surrendered to this life voluntarily to free himself of guilt, to reclaim himself. He must accept all the consequences of his choices, and truly, humiliation is not such a high price to pay for freedom.

_Love, not anger_, the Master urges.

And Rumple-Gold smiles. Let them have their rules and regulations, based on fear of the unknown. He wonders what Mother Superior will say when she learns who's officiating at the wedding.

He glances at the clock. In one hour Belle will arrive. In one hour his life begins anew. He has no anger, no humiliation, no doubt. He has love.

He offers Emma his hand, encouraging her with his direct gaze not to feel awkward. "It's a deal."

The tension falls out of her shoulders and she smiles, shaking his hand. "Congratulations, Mr. Gold. And my best wishes to you and Belle."

He appreciates the respect in her tone, and he offers it back to her. "Thank you, Ms. Swan."


	59. Chapter 59

Fifty-Nine

Thirty minutes.

He's practicing under his breath, but the words keep jumbling. He's been thinking about this for so long, you'd think he'd have the perfect proposal ironed out by now. But then, the conditions are far from perfect. As his wife, Belle is destined for as much frustration and heartache as joy.

But destined she is. Destined they are, no matter the circumstances. The one and only thing he can be sure of, besides their love, is that the Master's pulled off some amazing stuff; He must not be counted out when He's already set the wheel in motion.

Twenty minutes.

OK, forget the pretty speeches. Straight from the heart, that's best.

Fifteen minutes.

Beretrude strolls over, leans on one elbow against the bars of his cell and watches the clock with him. Then she gives him a quick once over and frowns. "You're going to propose, dressed like that?"

He's wearing what he always wears, since entering prison and putting the panache of Rumplestiltskin and the dark authority of Gold behind him: jeans and t-shirt. He has nothing else here. His flashier clothes are in a closet at Belle's, and she's the last person he'd ask to bring one of his suits over. He spreads his hands helplessly.

"Mind if I-?" Beretrude wiggles her fingers to suggest magic.

"Thanks," he smiles in relief.

"So what's your fashion preference: Rumplestiltskin Biker-Punk or _GQ_ Gold?"

Now it's his turn to frown. He's given no thought to clothes in these past four years, beyond having something warm enough for winter. Now that he is thinking about it, none of those old clothes seem right any more.

"I see," Beretrude surmises. "How about a little bit of both and something of neither?" She examines him a moment, then steps back, makes a wiping-the-slate-clean motion with her hand.

He looks down at his body as the magic swirls around him. It touches his skin and makes him shiver; it seeps into his pores, this little bit of magic, and enters his blood stream and for just a moment it soothes him, warms and comforts him, welcomes him, and then the cozy feeling passes and he craves more. It's not the first time he's been exposed to a touch of magic since losing his powers: every time he's given a lesson in magic management, it's been like this. He's always worked his way out of the yearning; today he has even more reason to. Oh, but this magic is so clean and pure, it's like a sip from a cold mountain stream to a man who's been crawling across the Sahara.

He shakes it off. His new duds please him: black slacks, black loafers, and a cream-colored cable knit sweater. Dressily casual, not Hugo "I've Got the Power" Bossy, the way Gold preferred, nor the impenetrable "Fire Breathing Dragon" look Rumple liked.

She nods in satisfaction. "Now what about the ring?"

"The jeweler's coming over this afternoon with a selection."

"OK, then, I guess you're ready. When we get outside, I'm going to get a sudden charley horse and I'll stop to rest on the bench. That's your cue. You'll have fifteen minutes."

"Thanks, Beretrude." He watches the clock. Five minutes. "Beretrude, am I doing the right thing, considering?"

"You're doing the right thing, _all_ things considered, Rumplestiltskin. There will be more to your life than what you can see now. The Master's promised it."

The upstairs door opens. Beretrude opens his cage and gives him a pat on the shoulder. Regina flashes a thumbs-up and says, "Good luck, Rumple."

He's at the foot of the stairs, his hand extended, as Belle descends. She stops mid-way, surprised: he's never met her at the stairs before.

"Good morning, Belle," he says softly.

She descends the rest of the way and takes his hand. He tucks her hand into the crook of his arm as Beretrude slips on her sweater.

"Good morning, Regina," Belle calls out, and the queen echoes the greeting, betraying nothing.

"Shall we go into the garden?" Beretrude suggests, and the three go back up the stairs, down the corridor and out the side exit. It's a sparkling spring day with a slight southern breeze. Yellow butterflies flutter over the flowers.

The butterflies in his stomach settle down as he reminds himself Who else stands behind his decision to propose.

Five minutes into the morning constitutional, Beretrude develops the promised charley horse and seats herself on the bench, urging the "young folk" to proceed without her. Belle looks concerned: she knows this a violation of the rules and worries that Beretrude may get fired. Beretrude tosses a magic snowball at the invisible dome defining the limits of Rumple-Gold's permitted space. "See? I don't have to be physically present to do my job. Worry not, sparrow. This is a day to rejoice. This is a day the Master made."

Belle raises an eyebrow but allows Rumple-Gold to lead her away. They pause to admire the emerging buds of spring and listen to the returning robins. Belle is wearing a billowy silver silk blouse and gray slacks: she's dressed up a bit because she will be going directly to the travel agency after this visit. Her hair, which she's cut to shoulder-length, is drawn back in a loose French bun. She's wearing the emerald earrings.

She bends down to appreciate a blue anemone coronaria, the flower of faith. When she straightens, he's dropped to one knee. As he takes her hand, she grins.

"The second day of the second month of spring, in the seventeenth year in the reign of King Gladwin III," he begins.

She ponders for a moment, then remembers. "The day you came to save my father's duchy—to save our lives. The day we met."

"The day a centuries-long winter ended for me. You brought in the spring. You always have, Belle; you brought in light and the warmth to the Dark Castle, and little by little, to me too. You brought me out of myself and into the world. I was more than 300 years old; I'd been married; and yet I'd never been in love before. That changed the moment you looked at me—not with fear or disgust or rage, though you would have been right to feel those things; the Dark One was stealing your life away—and yet you looked at me. . .with respect. With curiosity. You were the first person since Bae to see me as a man. And then you gave me the highest honor: your word. I said then it would be forever, and you said—"

"'I will go with you forever.'" Her gaze is far away and dreamy.

"And it has been and will be, Belle. For me, it's forever. I know this life we're living is a far cry from the one you deserve, but I also have faith in our love to pull us through the frustrations and disappointments of this life, and I have reason to believe we won't always have to live like this. Someday a miracle will happen and we'll be free, I'm sure of it. The Source of True Love has vowed it. And so I give you my vow, Belle, to love you, to honor you, to cherish you for the rest of my life, if you'll have me."

She touches his cheek. "Fairytale Land or Storybrooke or Timbuktu or the moon, it doesn't matter: where you go, I go. We will make the best of whatever life we must lead, and when we're free, when we can be together the way we want to be, we'll thank the Source that He gave us true love to carry us through. Rumplestiltskin, I will proudly stand before all of Storybrooke and say it again: I will go with you forever." She tugs at his hand and laughs. "Now, will you please kiss me while nobody's looking?"

He won't disillusion her on that last bit, though he can feel at least three pairs of eyes upon him. He rises—and surprisingly, for his age, he does so as agilely as a man a tenth his age would—and sweeps her into his arms, but in his enthusiasm his mouth misses hers and he ends up kissing her nose. She giggles and turns her head so that they match up right, and she kisses him back, pouring two lifetimes of loving him into the effort.

The way she's kissing him, he's wondering if there's a "Weddings R Us" in town that could put together Belle's ideal ceremony in one hour or less. And then he pulls himself together and brushes a loose strand of hair back from her face. "What would you think of holding the wedding at the cabin?"

"Darling, if you wanted to get married in a pig sty, that would be fine with me. But it just so happens that in those moments of daydreaming, when I would imagine where we might take our vows, the cabin was almost at the top of my list."

"Almost? What was at the top of your list?" He thinks Emma won't object too strongly to a change in venue, as long as a barrier spell can be cast.

"The Dark Castle," Belle admits.

He raises an eyebrow. "The Dark Castle?"

"Not so dark, for me. It's where I fell in love with you."

"It wasn't a dark castle, while you were there. But I'm not sure it exists any more. There were rumors that after James captured me, the castle was raided and looted. With my magic stifled, the magic I'd instilled into the castle dissipated and it could no longer defend itself."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Belle frowns. "I thought of it as home." She shakes her head and gives him a smile. "But Storybrooke is our home now, and I'm happy here."

"Even though. . . ."

"Even though," she assures him. "Haven't you always said that love is the most powerful magic? Iron bars can't keep us apart. So a lakeside wedding it will be. A sunrise wedding, with sunlight sparkling on the lake, and a warm breeze rustling the trees, and the birds singing. . . ."

It sounds familiar. He wonders if Belle's shared some of her daydreams with the sheriff.

There is that one big item of news that he really should share with her, as soon as possible, but he hasn't the heart to interrupt her daydreaming. He also hasn't the words yet to inform her of just who's going to officiate at the wedding.

Beretrude approaches, rustling bushes and stepping on twigs to alert them to her approach. "I'm sorry, youngsters, our time's expired."

"Beretrude, we're getting married," Belle announces. Her arm linked in his, she leans into Rumple-Gold, and he into her, as they walk back the way they came.

"Congratulations," the messenger offers; to her credit, she doesn't feign surprise. "A wise decision." She throws a quick glance at Rumple-Gold. He smiles back at her. For the first time in more years than calendars can count, he feels at peace, almost whole, except for that empty space he holds for Bae.

They descend the stairs to a burst of applause. Belle ducks her head for a moment, then decides she'll ride out the embarrassment in style; at the foot of the stairs, as Beretrude locks her fiancé away, she curtsies to her audience. Emma slips an arm about her shoulders and leads her toward Regina's cage, and the women begin to conspire. "Let me give you the number for my dressmaker," Regina suggests. "She made me the most delicious gowns for my inaugural balls. I brought her over from the old country; she dressed all the royals there. Too bad I fired my hair stylist. . . ."

Beretrude sets her hands on the bars and speaks quietly. "You look happy. Almost unqualifiedly happy."

"I am." Rumple-Gold pats her hand. "Thank you. And Waldo and Adela and Helewise." He glances toward the ceiling. "And Him."

"It's okay to be completely happy right now, you know," she assures him. "It doesn't take anything away from your dedication to Baelfire."

He has to ask, though doesn't anticipate a favorable answer. "Is there any chance-?"

She shakes her head slowly. "Not yet. But keep the faith, Rumplestiltskin. The Master always honors His agreements."

* * *

At 3:00 Belle returns. She was worthless at work today, she confesses: Jefferson sent her packing after she mixed up two contracts and nearly sent Ariel on a tour of the Black Lagoon. Or to be more accurate, Jefferson sent her shopping. The hatter's a rather stylish guy himself, and he referred her to his hair stylist for a consultation, and then she spent her afternoon selecting garments for her trousseau.

The children come for their daily story, and Rumple-Gold doesn't disappoint them, but he does make the tale rather short, as the jeweler has arrived. He tells the children the story of how a magician used his amazing powers to take a duchess to a mountaintop so she could pick the wildflowers there for her wedding bouquet. The girls giggle at the story; the boys groan, because no dragons are beheaded and no castles are blown to smithereens. He promises more action in tomorrow's story, then nudges them out into the sun to play.

And then it's time to choose rings.

By now, Belle has seen enough movies to know the traditions of this world, but hasn't lived here long enough to feel bound by those traditions. She adores her emerald earrings and only a matching emerald engagement ring will do. She selects a marquise cut. For the wedding rings, they agree on an unadorned band—in platinum. For some reason, he's tired of gold. In seven days, the jeweler will return with the completed rings, and Rumple will have the pleasure of placing the engagement ring upon Belle's finger.

This was the easy part. As Emma shoos Belle out for the night—with plans to take her and Snow out for a celebratory drink and some wedding planning Friday night—Rumple-Gold resumes his work at the wheel. His task is twofold: besides spinning thread for Belle's dress, he's got a problem to solve: how to convince a duke to attend the wedding of his only daughter to the man who nearly killed him.

* * *

**A/N. Guiding the mood in this chapter was Stevie Nicks' "Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for You". . . "there's no pain and there's no doubt." This chapter is dedicated to Grace5231973 and everyone else aboard the good ship Rumbelle. Coming up: a lovely summer day at the lake.**


	60. Chapter 60

Sixty

**A/N. The spirit guide for this chapter was Sting's "Shape of My Heart."**

* * *

_What prominent young businesswoman is set to wed a formerly prominent ex-businessman now serving life in prison for crimes too numerous and heinous to mention? As if that weren't cause enough for scandal, said businesswoman is half her fiance's age! Can you say "Gold-digger"?_

Rumple-Gold bunches the newspaper page into a ball and tosses it into his trashcan. Emma can see from his clenched teeth he's seething, but all he says is, "You'd think a reporter would try to get the facts right, if not the rest of it. Belle's not half my age; she's less than a tenth my age."

Emma shrugs. "I just thought you should see that so you'll know what she's putting up with. On the 'Storybrooke Uncovered' website, they're running an opinion poll on whether you and Belle should be allowed to marry. The choices are 'yes,' 'no' and 'he should be arrested for indecency.'"

He tightens his mouth. "Arresting me. Isn't that a little. . . redundant?" And then they chuckle.

"I, uh, did have to arrest Archie last night," Emma reports sheepishly. "He got into a fight at the White Rabbit with Dominic from the dry cleaner's. Dom was drunk on his keister and made some nasty remarks about you and Belle—"

"What—wait. You did say 'Archie'?"

"Archie. Yeah. Surprised me too. Archie dropped Dom with a right uppercut. A thing of beauty; you should've seen old Archie wailing on Dom like Joe Frazier on Peewee Herman." She smiles sheepishly again. "I, uh, may have been a little slow in stopping the fight."

"I'm amazed to hear Archie was in the White Rabbit. He seldom drinks and never dances."

"Yeah, come to think of it, me too. Guess it was Ruby's idea."

"They're still dating?"

"Yeah, exclusively now."

He shakes his head. "You know what, Emma? We're just about as bad as that so-called reporter, gossiping like this."

"It's not gossip if you're telling the truth, is it? We're just. . .exchanging news about some mutual friends. Nothing I'm sure Ruby wouldn't tell you herself."

"Not Archie, though."

"No, not Archie." Emma shifts her weight to her left hip and leans against the bars. "Anyway, I thought you should hear what's going on, in case Belle seems a little out of sorts lately. It's not like this everywhere, though. Most people are sayin' they're happy for you and her. There's still some nasty backstabbers out there—and boy, I'm tempted sometimes to, like, forget to lock your cell some night and leave your cane layin' out handy for you."

His mouth twitches. "Mr. Gold no longer has an inclination toward revenge by cane."

"Yeah. And I appreciate that, I really do, but sometimes. . . when I read crap like that in the newspaper, well, I do miss the old days."

"Well, I believe I left my cane in the cabin. The next time Archie goes out clubbing, you could make sure he has—"

"A club," she finishes for him.

He asks Belle about the gossip—except he calls it _slander_ and _libel_. She scowls, not at what's being said against him and her, but against the distraction. "Nothing is going to ruin our wedding." She raises her chin defiantly.

Still, he's glad they have plenty of friends out there to speak up against the slander—and, when necessary, punch up.

* * *

They have more pressing and pleasant matters to attend. Since Storybrooke has no wedding planner—there having been no weddings up until four years ago—Snow has come to the rescue. She pulls to-do lists off the Internet, prioritizes the tasks and assigns them to various helpers, including Henry, who, though he admits he'd rather be playing baseball, appreciates the adult-level responsibilities he's assigned, running errands and babysitting his uncle while Snow takes Belle out shopping. Even James has been recruited to the effort: he's taking care of the flowers so Belle won't have to, Game of Thorns being the only floral shop in town.

Which gives Rumple an opening. He's written two letters to Moe, even phoned once and was hung up on. Moe's response has been indirect: he tries to hire a lawyer so he can sue Rumple for brainwashing until he discovers Gold is the only lawyer in town. He then asks Emma to investigate, mumbling something about "Stockholm syndrome." Emma smiles a coolly sweet smile and says if this is a case of Stockholm syndrome, Moe should be consulting Archie, not the sheriff; Moe should ask Archie to meet him in the White Rabbit some night to talk about it. Moe shuts up after that.

So Rumple swallows his pride and asks James to carry a message to Moe: the bride and the groom would like to invite him to the wedding, even if he can't bring himself to walk his daughter down the aisle.

James reports back that Moe refused to listen to the message.

* * *

Emma reports that her mother, upset by continuing "blind items" in the _Storybrooke Mirror_, has confronted the editor. Amid accusations of libel and violations of privacy on the one side and attempts to muzzle Freedom of the Press on the other, the discussion becomes quite heated. When Snow fails to achieve the retractions she sought, she threatens to start an advertising boycott in the business community, reminding the editor that he's messing with the reputation of the two-time winner of the Storybrooke Chamber of Commerce's Businesswoman of the Year award.

The editor holds his ground, claiming he's defending the free flow of information, and Snow goes home to draft her boycott petition. She discovers she doesn't need to circulate it, however; the blind items cease and the "reporter" who wrote them is dismissed. Snow doesn't count this as a victory, however, when she learns that newspaper circulation and advertising revenues dropped dramatically during the Gold/French bashing period. Seems the business community didn't need a petition to inspire action.

* * *

They've been engaged two weeks when he finally tells her everything.

She's known for a long time about the messengers. When he first introduced the topic, the day after his return from Wonderland, he found himself leaning heavily on her memories of the old world: if she had been born in this one, she would have surely run screaming from him, calling for Dr. Hopper. But Belle has seen enough strange things that magic is not supernatural to her, and she was brought up to believe in the existence of the Black Star and the Source of All Magic. She had no trouble accepting his claim that Helewise worked for the Source, and when she met Waldo, Beretrude and Adela, she accepted them as well, without requiring proof; she even accepted Adela's unique relationship to Rumple. That the Source would take an interest in the two formerly most powerful mages in the world seems only appropriate to Belle; in fact, she is relieved that her beloved will have such special support in his efforts to remake himself.

Besides, an innocent soul like Belle could only respond with affection to representatives of True Love.

But what he has to tell her now far exceeds her imagination—it far exceeds _his_ imagination, and that's going some.

So after the children have had their story and are gone, he gains permission to take Belle out into the meditation garden, with Adela standing by. He wastes no time; they have only a half-hour before visiting hours expire. He leads Belle to the bench and urges her to sit, while Adela strolls among the flowers and pretends not to listen.

"Belle, I, uh, I have someone to officiate," he gulps. "At the wedding." He starts pacing.

"That's great," she says. "Who is it?"

"Well, it's, uh, not any of the people Snow recommended."

"Oh. Someone from out of town?" She sets her hands on her knees and waits.

"Uhm, yeah. . . . Belle, sweetheart, the, uh, the Master. . the Source of All Magic, the True Morning Star. . ."

"Yes?" she prompts.

He stops pacing and takes her hands in his. She must look him in the eyes now; it will help her to see he's telling the unadulterated truth. "He's officiating."

"Huh?"

"He's marrying us. Himself. Or Herself," Rumple pauses, remembering his first direct encounter with the Source.

She sputters, "You're not—"

"No. Not kidding." He sits down, still holding her hands, giving her time for the news to sink in.

"The. . .Source. . . will. . .marry us." She has to take it one word at a time.

"Yes."

Suddenly her eyes widen and she stares at him. He glances hastily at his hands, then reassured he hasn't turned back into an imp, he smiles weakly, trying to encourage her. "Wow," she breathes. "I always knew you had a lot of important connections, but—this—!"

"Yeah." He rubs the backs of her hands with his thumbs. "Flattering, isn't it?"

"Flattering, indeed!" Belle raises a warning finger. "You're stuck with me now, Rumplestiltskin. What _He_ joins together, no man had better try to put asunder!"

"Sweet one, I've long suspected we were a match made in heaven."

* * *

Belle has set the wedding date: July 4.

Rumple-Gold, along with everyone else, is a little puzzled by the choice: it's kind of a busy day in Storybrooke, what with a parade in the morning and a community picnic in the afternoon; Belle says her sunrise wedding and faux-champagne brunch reception will be wrapped up an hour before the parade begins, so there will be no conflict. When others remind her July 4 is Independence Day, not exactly the most romantic of holidays, Belle raises her chin stubbornly and replies, "Yes, it's Independence Day. That's why I chose it."

Only those who know Belle can understand her reasoning. Only Rumple-Gold, who knows just how deep the streak of defiance runs in Belle, can interpret the message she's sending, to their detractors, to their supporters: we may be prisoners, but we're free.

Love is like that, Adela observes. Love is the mother of forgiveness and forgiveness, the mother of freedom.

* * *

Rumple-Gold has chosen his groomsmen. Since Belle will have two bridesmaids, he needs two groomsmen. He makes his first choice immediately, and Emma permits him to make the phone call extending the invitation.

As soon as he hears Rumple's voice, Bertie realizes something's up: the rules do not permit phone calls. "Are you all right?" he asks cautiously. He's worried his daughter's godfather has taken ill again.

"Better than all right," Rumple assures him. "I'm getting married."

"Dude! Good goin', man." Bertie doesn't have to ask to whom, only when.

"July 4, at Luna Lake. I was wondering if you'd be my best man, and we'd love it if Chloe would be the flower girl."

"Sure thing, Rum. You can count on us. Hey, Rum?"

"Yeah, Bertie?"

"I'm happy for you, man."

"Thanks. Me too."

Rumple-Gold ponders for two days about the second best man. He'd ask Archie, except Belle plans to ask him to walk her down the aisle. Belle picks at a loose thread in her blouse as she discusses this; in a low voice, she says, "He's the closest I have to a father here."

Rumple nods his acceptance of the idea. "Maybe it's time to let go. Moe seems to have made up his mind."

"Yeah." There's a catch in her voice.

The orange cat detects the change in mood. She rises from her spot on Rumple's shoulder, bumps her head against his jaw as she always does when bidding hello or goodbye, then before her humans can stop her she leaps. Her spatial perception is spot-on: she passes through the bars of the cell without bumping and lands on Belle's lap. She stretches herself to set her forepaws on Belle's shoulder, gives Belle a jaw-bump, then curls up on Belle's knees and turns on the purr motor. Belle runs a hand along Rebel's back.

"She's forgiven me for not being you," Belle says.

"Someday," Rumple says thoughtfully, "Moe will forgive me for being me."

After two days he realizes that he's dragged his feet about the groomsman decision because, deep down, he's waiting for Bae. In the quiet of the night, he discusses the situation with the Master, and the answer comes back: _Not yet_.

There's an ache left behind when he finally lets go of this last daydream, but he sets his mind to the choice at hand. Briefly, he considers asking James, because they have developed a relationship that is more than professional, but it's also less than friendship, and James has made it known publicly that he thinks this wedding is. . . a waste of time. Unlike Mother Superior, he doesn't object on moral grounds; he just doesn't see how the relationship between a lifer and a civilian could be considered a marriage. He's even used the word _mockery_ a couple of times, until Snow ordered him to shut up or sleep on the couch. So, no, James is out.

He considers Jefferson, whom he's known for more than a century, but outside of the. . . uh. . .work environment, they've had no contact.

And then Henry comes in for his daily visit. He's showing off his new letter jacket to his mother Regina and his old friend Mr. Gold, and that old friend suddenly notices how tall the lad had grown. In two years he'll graduate high school. As he dutifully admires the jacket, Rumple reflects upon his long relationship with Henry—in the latter's case, a lifelong relationship.

A sudden thought jolts Rumple. In large part, Rumple-Gold is the man he is today because of Henry.

It was the boy and his grandmother who first dared to visit the fearsome monster in prison. It was the boy who gave the prisoner a purpose: sharing tales of the past with the younger generation. It was the boy who connected him with the community that had shunned him. It was the boy, now the almost-man, who made an honored elder out of a very old recluse.

So when Belle returns, he informs of her of his choice, and she celebrates. Emma and Regina are flattered: each can take some credit for the man Henry is becoming. And of course Henry accepts.

He even promises to wake up extra early on July 4 so he can shave for the wedding.

* * *

Emma has more news.

Yesterday, Henry paid a visit to Game of Thorns. It's quite unlike the normally well-mannered lad: he interrupted Mr. French's transaction with a customer and loudly demanded an answer, on the spot, to the letters Mr. Gold sent.

"Because if you're not going to walk Belle down the aisle, she's going to ask Dr. Hopper," Henry announced. "You see, I'm a best man, so it's kind of my job to see to it this wedding goes smoothly."

It just so happened that French's other customer was Elsa Rhodes, adoptive mother of Grace—and therefore good friend of Belle's business partner. Upon observing this dispute, Elsa gasped (though in actually she'd heard the full story from Jefferson), "Mr. French! Can this be true? Have you actually ignored your only daughter's request to walk her down the aisle?"

As Moe opened and closed his mouth like a blowfish, Elsa continued, "Oh, I'm sure this is a mistake. No father could possibly refuse such a request. Such a sweet girl she is, too, quite a role model for our young people. To have not only survived what Regina did to her, but to have risen so far above it, and in such a short time, to have become a leader in this town, a role model for our little girls to look up to. Why, my own daughter Grace wrote an essay about her for her 'women in leadership' assignment last month."

Moe managed to eke out a few sounds that resembled words, but Elsa would have none of it. "Mr. French, it's well known that there's bad blood between you and Mr. Gold, but really! Your own daughter! Surely you can put aside any ill feelings you might have for one day, for her sake!"

"Mr. Gold has reformed." Henry added. "He gave up his magic and took responsibility for his crimes. Mom didn't have to arrest him—he turned himself in. But I thought everybody knew that. He's paying his debt and everybody should give him the benefit of the doubt."

Moe watched hungrily as Elsa dropped her credit card back into her wallet, dropped the wallet into her purse and closed the purse. "I'm sorry, Mr. French, but I'll be buying flowers somewhere else from now on."

"There is nowhere else—" Moe blurted.

And then Elsa threw down the most offensive gauntlet of all. "I'll be buying plastic flowers from the grocery store from now on." And she turned on her heel.

"But—but—_Plastic_!" Moe ran out from behind the counter and planted himself at the exit so Elsa couldn't leave. "It's all a misunderstanding. I am going to the wedding. I'm sure my RSVP just got lost in the mail. And I'm supplying the flowers for the wedding, no charge! It's my gift to my daughter. Miz Rhodes, won't you please come back?"

"Hmm," Elsa considered it. "Yes, of course, it had to be a misunderstanding. Mr. French, I'll take those gladiolas and throw in some baby's breath as well." She opened her purse again as Moe shot a glare over her head at Henry. While Moe was occupied with scanning the credit card, Elsa and Henry exchanged a wink.

It seems Moe French was a victim of a conspiracy.

* * *

Rumple-Gold has received a letter.

It's an unusual occurrence. He's received personal emails pretty regularly from Bertie and Zoe, often with photos attached, and receives business emails from James and other community leaders. But this is a proper letter. It's two weeks late, because the post office had trouble figuring out where to bring it. But it finally arrives, a little worse for wear, and when he opens it, Rumple-Gold gets a lump in his throat.

The letter is a two-page handwritten acceptance and thank-you from Chloe Weaver. For a kindergartener, her handwriting is quite good, though her spelling is primitive. "Dere Mr. Gold," the letter begins. "Thank you for aksin me to be the flor girl at your weding. I never been a flor girl befor and I am happy. To do it. Mama says I shud tell you it is a hunur. Becos it is. Mama is makin me a dress it has a big bow in the bak. I got new shus to. They are shiney and got big bukls. I cant hardeley wait it will be fun. Thank you. Here is a pitcher of my new dress. Love from your god dotter. Chloe."

When Belle arrives at 3:00, he hands her the letter. He can't speak for the lump in his throat. She reads the letter through twice, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand.

* * *

This is another first: Emma in a formal gown.

The sheriff and her mom are modeling their gowns for Regina—gowns that were designed by Regina's personal dressmaker. Snow twirls in her gown so the ladies and Rumple can admire the way the dress moves. Watching her, Rumple remembers the little princess in the oversized dress splashing in her father's reflecting pool. Even for this small audience, Snow holds herself regally in the gown; she was born to this.

Emma is another story. She runs her hands down her hips, apparently searching for pockets to stick her hands into. When she realizes what she's doing, she gives up and folds her arms across her chest. The satin dresses are rather modest: floor-length with a roman neckline and a thin belt with a cluster of tiny pearls in the front.

Belle has chosen emerald and silver as her wedding colors. She knows Rumple will always associate robin's egg blue with her, but in her new life she is drawn to emerald green; it's a bold color, a color of strength. It looks fantastic on Emma and Snow, and Regina tells them so.

Rumple just smiles and spins.

* * *

It's the first week of June and Moe hasn't kept his word. Or maybe, Henry thinks, he's just too embarrassed. The cure for that, in Henry's estimation, is more embarrassment, so he pulls the same stunt when coach Fred and the Coon Cats come into Game of Thorns with a very large order: they're building a float for the 4th of July parade and want to decorate it with some kind or other of flowers; they have no idea what. Money's no object, as Regina is funding the float. The cash register in Moe's brain ka-chings as he takes down his big catalogs and starts talking about hardy red, white and blue flowers.

And then Henry bursts in. He hasn't been a Coon Cat in years, but he's on the high-school's varsity squad, and that makes him Someone to Listen To. Besides, he _drives_. He got his license on the first try. He doesn't have his own car but Gramps lets him drive the pickup sometimes. So all the Coon Cats fall silent as he begs pardon for the interruption.

"But this is quite important," Henry says. "You see, Belle and Rumplestiltskin's wedding is less than a month away and they still haven't received your RSVP, Mr. French."

"Henry, I'm trying to do business here," French complains. He's starting to wonder just how much money he'll continue to lose if he doesn't get rid of this kid.

"That's all right," Coach says. "We'll just look through these books while you're talking." But they don't: they openly eavesdrop.

"It's been two months since they asked you to walk her down the aisle and they really need an answer, so I'll tell you what." Henry digs into his shirt pocket and produces a phone. "Here, this is Belle's number. Just press that button there."

"Henry, now's not the time—"

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, but it is the time. They can't wait any longer for answer. We've got to order the suits by Friday, so we need to know if it's Dr. Hopper or you. You know, tuxes don't come in one-size-fits-all."

Moe hands the phone back. "Tell her I'm sorry but I'll be working that day."

"It's the Fourth of July, Mr. French. Even Granny's going to be closed."

"Well, I have. . . inventory to do."

Henry pockets the phone with an audible sigh. "That's a shame, Mr. French. Belle will be so disappointed. So will Mr. Gold. They were both saying they really want you there, even if you're not in the wedding party."

"Responsibilities to my business," French mutters. "Now, Coach, how big will this float be?"

Henry walks out, but he can hear the conversations going on behind him. The Coon Cats are murmuring among themselves. Fred consults with them briefly, then announces, "Sorry, Mr. French. Change of plans. We think plastic flowers will hold up better in the heat."


	61. Chapter 61

Sixty-One

**A/N. The spirit guides for this chapter were Stevie Nicks' "Leather and Lace" and Tori Amos' "Flavor": "You must pick a side/Will you choose fear or will you choose love?"**

* * *

Rumple-Gold is happy for Regina. For the first time in four years, apart from her tightly controlled trips to the stables, she gets to do something that, for her, is normal and enjoyable: she's being fitted for a dress suit. Her personal dressmaker, Madelyn (who, back in Fairytale Land, was. . . the royal dressmaker Madelyn. She's the only Fairytale Lander the curse didn't tinker with.) has spent the morning in Regina's cell, looking over patterns and fabrics and taking measurements and discussing weather forecasts (at 6a.m., when the wedding starts, a temperature of 70 degrees is expected with a light breeze from the south and no chance of rain—news that makes Belle toss her head back and offer a word of thanks to the heavens above.)

Regina has given the wedding invitation pride of place on her nightstand, propping it right in front of Henry's class photo. Belle, remembering the difficulty the post office had in finding the prison, hand-delivered the invitations for the guards and Regina. The guards are required to attend the wedding: it's a work assignment. But Belle prefers to invite them just the same, as she would any friend. As she did Regina.

When Belle presented the invitation, Regina slid her arms past the bars and hugged her. Rumple-Gold has known Regina for two hundred years and has never seen her hug anyone besides Henry. He mentioned this to Belle, adding, "That's what you do for people, my love, what you bring out in them."

Belle blushed and changed the subject.

* * *

They've asked that in lieu of gifts, donations be made to the scholarship fund Rumple set up. After cleaning out the pink house, Belle confesses she just can't bear to lay eyes on another blender or toaster or coffeemaker, so there's an element of selfishness in the request. The only wedding gift she wants is an evening alone with her husband.

Which reminds Rumple of something he really needs to do before that evening, but he can't do it from the prison. He deliberates for days until Archie, noticing his agitation, offers the solution. "You seem a little nervous," the doctor comments one morning. "Are you having second thoughts about marriage?"

"No. No doubts whatsoever," Rumple says promptly. He falls silent while he searches for words; Archie gives him time. Finally Rumple sighs and admits in a hushed tone, lest his would-have-been-daughter, who's on duty today, overhears, "I'm a little nervous about the wedding night."

"Oh. You and Belle haven't been intimate, I take it."

Rumple squirms on his bench. "That's not the problem. I mean, it has been a while—about three hundred and forty years, I guess—but I'm not worried about that. I haven't completely forgotten, and I'm not too proud to learn. She and I will figure it out together."

"That's a healthy attitude," Archie says. "In all aspects of marriage. Talk it out, learn from each other."

"No, my problem is. . . basic." He runs his hands over his face in embarrassment. "The thing is, I need. . .to buy. . . I can't leave here, but I need to go to the pharmacy. . . ." He lets an unspoken question hang.

"Pharmacy. To fill a prescription?" Archie's confused. "Has Whale prescribed—"

"No, no, I need to. . . be prepared, you see. I mean, Belle and I have decided against having children, so. . . . And you're right; we haven't been intimate, so neither of us is prepared. . .for. . .prevention. . . " His voice trails.

Archie's face clears. "Oh. I get it. I'll take care of it. I'll drop by the pharmacy and pick up. . .supplies. . . .I still have the spare key for the cabin. I'll leave them in the medicine cabinet."

Rumple clears his throat. "Thanks."

"Do you have a preference in brands or styles?"

Rumple rolls his eyes. "Archie, I just told you, it's been three hundred and forty years. I haven't researched the matter, but I'm pretty sure things have changed a bit since then."

"Right. Well, don't worry about it. I'll buy the variety pack."

"Yeah. . . thanks."

Archie's a bit red-faced himself, so he switches the subject quickly. "So did you catch the Yankees-Red Sox game last night? Ichiro hit one over the Green Monster in the ninth. A thing of beauty."

"I'm sure it was. Thanks, Archie. For everything."

"Don't mention it. Really. The pharmacy, the White Rabbit—don't mention any of it."

* * *

Rumple-Gold is planning his tux today.

Gold is quite used to the work of tailors; before the curse broke and he became aware of his true identity, he rather felt it an obligation to buy custom-made things. What damage might be done to his reputation if he was seen buying off the rack was a question he never wanted to have answered. And Rumplestiltskin, when he arrived in Storybrooke, came with his own literal baggage, also custom-made, by magic, of course.

But Rumple-Gold the prisoner, except for the occasional foray to City Hall, when he's worn one of his old suits, has had only jeans and t-shirts, sweaters and sneakers to wear. It's not that he's lacking money, or even opportunity: his former personal tailor would gladly come to the prison. Mr. Browning (in the old world, an innkeeper) has always enjoyed serving Mr. Gold, and not just for the money Gold plunked down: he enjoyed serving a man whose tastes made him a walking billboard. "Look at Mr. Gold," Browning got to tell prospective customers. "Those are my clothes he's wearing. He may be a bastard, but he's a well-dressed bastard."

Browning has dropped by occasionally over the years to show Gold some of his new stock, particularly ties: Gold has a weakness for ties. But Browning has always gone away disappointed. With his change of address, Gold seems to have lost interest in clothes. Browning can't really blame him: why spend five grand on a suit that will never see the light of day?

But today is different. The tastemaker in Mr. Gold has awakened. He and Browning have spent a full two hours planning the tuxes the groom's party will wear. Gold has very definite ideas: the suits must be comfortable for a mid-summer's day, they must breathe and move because the men will be outdoors, and they must complement but not overwhelm the bridal party's gowns.

Gold finds something in Browning's catalog that's close, but not spot-on, and Browning is well pleased: he will have the opportunity to tweak here and there, to improve upon Gucci. Browning's toes curl at the thought: for years to come, he will be able to say, "Gucci wasn't good enough for Mr. Gold: only a Browning would do." As he takes Gold's measurements, he notes that the prisoner has gained about five pounds since he last took the measurements, five years ago. A needed five pounds, Browning adds. Now the clothes will hang properly.

Browning also notices that Gold's tastes have moved a bit to the left of his darkly elegant, modern but conservative style of old. He's not youthful or cutting edge—that wouldn't be appropriate for a mature man—but he's showing a hint of rock 'n' roll.

Gold finally selects a light gray, lightweight tux, a silver vest, a white silk shirt, and a silver silk tie. He's picked up on Belle's color themes, and the suits should hold up well in the heat. He's satisfied.

OK, he's more than satisfied. He's beginning to think maybe it wouldn't hurt to let a little of the old fashion sense back in. Just a little: maybe a silk tie every so often. Maybe a pair of leather pants once in a great while. As long as he monitors his reactions and doesn't detect an increase in the yearning for magic, perhaps it would be all right to feel like Gold or Rumplestiltskin again, once in a great while.

But then Browning comments to Emma on his way out, "Mr. Gold is back." Rumple-Gold overhears and decides he'd probably better stay away from the old clothes after all, lest it lead to old ways of thinking.

A couple of weeks later, when Browning brings the suit in for a fitting, it's visiting hours and Belle arrives in time to see her fiancé in the tux. She exclaims, "You're beautiful," causing him to laugh and causing Beretrude to hurry over to see.

"You are!" the guard agrees, then she urges him out of the cell and into the hallway so Regina can see.

"You do fine work, Mr. Browning," the former queen remarks. "Only you could improve upon Gucci."

"Thank you, Madame Mayor." No one corrects Browning's mistake.

"The tuxes will go well with the bridesmaids' gowns," Regina adds.

"I take it you're pleased, then?" Rumple-Gold asks Belle.

"Very." She kisses him.

* * *

It's mid-morning and they're waiting for Archie. Regina will check in with him first; she's in a good space right now: Henry has asked her to sit beside him and Emma during the wedding.

Rumple-Gold, on the other hand, has a serious matter to discuss with Archie. He's beginning to have second thoughts—not about the wedding, but about. . . after the wedding. More specifically, they're going to talk about his and Belle's longing for children, all the reasons why they shouldn't and the only good reason why they should.

So it would have to be today that Moe finally puts in an appearance. He bangs on the locked door until Leroy stomps up the stairs to see what's what. Moe pushes past Leroy and starts down the stairs; the guard seizes him by the arm, spins him around, nearly causing them both to fall, and flattens him against the wall. Before Moe can regain his footing, Leroy's slapped cuffs on him and is hauling him down the stairs.

Regina and Rumple rush to the front of their cells to figure out the cause of the commotion. From her angle, Regina can see first what's going on and she informs Rumple, "It's Moe." Her voice takes on an amused aspect as she adds, "Grumpy's got him cuffed and pinned against the wall."

"Leroy!" Rumple calls. "Before you call Emma to come get him, will you let me talk to him?"

The dwarf's grumbling and starting to dial his phone.

"It's for Belle," Rumple adds. He's pushed Leroy's button and he knows it. Like a good number of Storybrookers, Leroy can't say no to Belle, whether it's an extra ten minutes of visiting time with Rumple or a donation to the library fund. Of course, Belle is wise enough to not push that button too often, and that makes her harder to say no to.

"Five minutes," Leroy snarls, dragging Moe to Rumple's cell. He sticks his finger in Moe's face. "And then I'm calling the sheriff to come get you." He crosses his arms and leans against the wall—where he can watch the clock and listen to the conversation.

"Would've been easier if you'd come during visiting hours," Rumple points out to Moe. "Did you come to talk about the wedding?"

"I came to talk some sense into you before it's too late." Moe leans forward but before he can make a threat of himself, Leroy shoves him back. "Let go of me," he insists. Leroy does let go but not before Moe makes it clear he won't move again.

"Take your spell off her," Moe hisses.

"Spell?"

"No girl in her right mind would throw her life away on the likes of you, and Belle is a sensible girl. I know you've bewitched her. If you have the least bit of decency, you'll uncurse her, let her have the life she deserves. A husband, children, a home." He pointedly nods at the bars of Rumple's cage. "Not—this. And not you."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. French," Rumple says. "The truth of it is, there's no spell on her. If you understood your daughter half as well as you think you do, you'd know she has a great capacity for seeing the good in everyone, even in the likes of me. I don't know how it was that I came to be so blessed, but she loves me, with a clear-eyed, unshakable love, and she has faith in me. And I've been doing my best to live up to that faith."

"Why? What did I ever do to you that you'd take my daughter? An innocent girl." French's face twists in agony. "Why are you torturing us?"

"I love Belle. I want her to be happy. I know it's hard to see, but Belle will be happy married to me, even under these conditions. If you'd ask her, perhaps you'd see."

"I'd see what you want me to see. You put a powerful spell on her."

"Mr. French, I've been without magic for four years. I couldn't even make those handcuffs disappear. And even at the height of my powers, I couldn't make anyone fall in love with anyone. No one can."

"He's not lying," Regina supplies. "I tried. My mother tried. It can't be done."

"I was a monster, in those days. Magic gave me all the wealth and power I thought I wanted, but it made a monster of me. But love trumped my magic. You'll never understand this, Mr. French; I'm not sure anyone who doesn't know Belle and me could understand. But I wasn't arrested and tried; I turned myself in, and I did that because I want to be the sort of man who deserves a woman like Belle. I want to my family to be proud of me—and whether you accept it or not, Mr. French, Belle is my family."

"She will never be yours. You might control her, but she could never love you of her own free will."

"Mr. French, you're so far wrong it's sad. You don't know your daughter at all. If you had listened to her, or even observed her, you'd know she's her own woman. The fact is, no threats or bargains or machinations on your part will drive her away from me.

"I'm going to tell you something about myself that few people know, Mr. French. I wasn't born evil. I was just the village spinner, lame and powerless. Long ago, I had a son, a boy any man would be proud of. When I became the Dark One, he hated what how it changed me, and he gave me an ultimatum. I thought I was choosing magic, but I eventually figured out I'd chosen fear over him. Not a second has gone by since then that I haven't regretted my decision. Be a wiser man than I was, Mr. French. Choose Belle, and let there be a truce between us."

Moe explodes. "Who are you, to give me advice? Just look where you are. Are you really so insane that you think you've got the moral high ground? You were the worst sort of evil in the old country; you're the worst sort here as well. You won't have my daughter, if I have anything to say about it."

"Then I'm sorry to tell you, you've just lost your daughter."

"All right, that's enough fun for one day." Leroy jerks Moe to his feet. He unlocks the handcuffs and shoves Moe forward. "Get out before I change my mind and arrest you for assaulting an officer."

After things have returned to normal, Rumple retreats to his spinning wheel to think. Regina clicks her tongue. "You know, if you think about it—if _he'd_ think about it, he has a lot in common with us. It took losing Henry to make me see. Maybe if he loses Belle. . . ."

"If he ever does come around, Belle will be there for him. She won't give up on him. She didn't give up on me."

"Rumple?"

"Yes?"

"You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but I've always wondered: why did you turn yourself in? Was it like you told him, so that Belle would be proud of you?"

"Yes. And—maybe you're the only person who could fully understand this—I did it so I could be free."

She falls silent for several minutes. He resumes his spinning, assuming the conversation is over, until she answers thoughtfully, "I think I do. I think I do understand."

* * *

When Archie comes, instead of talking about Belle and Rumple's would-be children, they talk about two troubled fathers and the children they have lost to fear. Archie listens intently.

"Is there anything I can do to fix this?" Rumple asks.

Archie studies him. "Is there anything Bae could have said to you, in those days, to make you come around?"

Rumple hangs his head. "I'm sorry for them both, Moe and Belle. They were close once. I especially feel sorry for her. She did nothing wrong, but he's put her into a position where she has to choose between me and him."

"No, he hasn't." Archie sets a reassuring hand on his client's shoulder. "Belle places her trust in True Love, so for her, it's not a matter of choice; it's clear as day. She'll miss her father, but she won't regret following her heart."

* * *

What the men don't know, however, is that True Love has a warrior, and that warrior has a camera.

And there's nothing more powerful to a father than the image of his daughter in a wedding dress.

Later, Rumple and Belle will learn how Henry won the war with his camera, how Game of Thorns came to be "vandalized" one morning, its windows and door plastered with 8 by 11 color photos of Belle modeling her wedding dress for Emma and Snow, and unbeknownst to her, an amateur photographer/marketer. By the time Moe has peeled off the last of the forty-four photos from the entrance to his shop, another father is having second thoughts about the choice between fear and love.


	62. Chapter 62

Sixty-Two

Rumple-Gold is holding the Master to His promises.

For all the nasty names that can accurately be flung at Rumplestiltskin and Mr. Gold, _promise breaker _was never one of them. Both the imp and the pawnbroker were men of their word. Yes, oftentimes people seemed to have cotton candy stuffed in their ears when they approached either man for a deal, but if they thought about it later, they had to admit, if things didn't work out the way they wanted, it was due to their own misunderstanding, not deceit. Rumplestiltskin and Mr. Gold, while not honorable men, were men of honor.

Rumple-Gold expects no less from the Creator of the universe, and so he stands on the Master's two promises: _you're a new man_ and _there's more to your life than what you see_. On these foundations Rumple-Gold has based his marriage—and as a lesser mark of faith, he's renewed his driver's license. Strangely enough, state law permits a lifer to have a driver's license, unless the reason for his incarceration involved a motor vehicle. Of course, Rumple can't appear in person to renew the license, but for this one time, an online renewal is permitted. In five years, when the license expires, he'll be out of luck.

Unless the Master delivers on the second promise by then.

* * *

Panting, wiping a sleeve across his sweat-beaded forehead, Rumple-Gold presses his back against a tree. The camouflage he's wearing has done little to protect him from the enemy, and to make matters worse, his body's about to give out. Even in his imp days, when his body was in its prime, he wasn't much of a runner. "Henry! You still with me?"

A thumb rises from behind a boulder, indicating Henry is uninjured. So far.

"Listen, buddy, you're going to have to go on without me."

"No, Mr. Gold, I won't leave you behind," the lad pokes his masked head around the boulder just long enough to protest, and then he ducks back into safety.

"You've got to. I can't hold out much longer. James has got a dead bead on me; I'm a goner."

"No, Mr. Gold, don't say that! I can get you out—"

But before Henry can finish his sentence, a shot strikes the tree, missing Rumple's chest by scant inches.

"Listen, I'll cover you; you run for it. If we go down, we go down in a blaze of glory. Right?"

"Right!"

"On three then. One, two, three!" As Henry pops up from the boulder and runs, Rumple recovers his face with the mask, steps out from behind his tree into the open, raises his gun and hammers the trigger.

He's immediately and repeatedly hit. He stumbles backward, the gun falling from his hands, and sinks to his knees. The last thing he sees before he collapses is Henry taking a hit and falling. "We got you good," James sneers, tossing off his mask and raising his gun into the air in victory.

"Sorry, Rum, had to do it." Bertie appears from thin air to lift Rumple to his feet. "You won't tell Chloe I shot you, will you? She'd never forgive me."

"'S all right, Bertie, I needed to be put out of my misery." Rumple yanks off his mask. "Is this how you Mainers treat the elderly: take them out in the woods and shoot them? I did mention to you once, didn't I, that I'm pushing four hundred?"

Waldo, also unmasking, appears from behind a bush. "Dude, you're a mess. There's more paint on you than there is on the Sistine Chapel."

Henry now rises from the dead. "I died, but I died tryin'." He's clutching the enemy's flag.

James slaps him on the back. "A noble effort, Henry. You'll make a knight yet."

Rumple breathes in a lungful of fresh air and rests against the tree. "You say people actually do this every weekend?"

"Paintball's the closest we can get to battle," James shrugs. "Rumple, you're missing one of your team. Where's Leroy?"

They find the guard chowing down on chili dogs in the clubhouse. "Sorry, fellas," he apologizes to his teammates, "but I saw how the tide was turning and I was hungry."

Rumple throws an arm around Henry's shoulders. "Laddie, the next time you throw me a bachelor party, could you make it something more sedate, like, say, dragon racing?"

He feels doubly old when he learns, the next day, what Snow has arranged for the bridal shower: skydiving. And this for a bride-to-be who's never seen the inside of an airplane.

* * *

Adela flips the lights on at 4 a.m. Both her charges are wide awake.

"Nervous, Rumple?" Regina asks, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Nervous, no. Excited." Only Bae's birth can compare to this day. For just a moment, Rumple feels a twinge of sympathy for Regina, who has known no joy in either marriage or childbirth.

"If I bring you breakfast, could you eat?" Adela greets the prisoners.

"I could, something light," Regina answers, but Rumple shakes his head. He takes a long shower, letting the hot water calm him down, and he dresses slowly and carefully. He manages to run the clock down.

At 5 o'clock, Waldo, Beretrude and Leroy arrive, their shoulder holsters hidden beneath suit jackets. Even Grumpy is smiling. Adela casts a barrier spell on the prisoners, then opens the cages. Waldo extends an arm and Regina hooks her hand through it; as he leads her up the stairs, through the silent hospital and into the parking lot, one would think them a couple coming home from a late date. Adela and Rumple follow, also arm in arm, and Beretrude and Leroy follow.

Adela leans into her would-have-been father and whispers, "We're all so happy for you." As they stop in front of a mini-van and Leroy unlocks the vehicle's doors, Adela adds, "Saer and Leicia, too."

"They know?"

"They do indeed. They send their love and their congratulations."

Waldo helps Beretrude into the back seat of the van, then Regina, then he climbs in and slides the door shut. Rumple sets his hand on the passenger door, but Leroy grunts, "This ain't your ride, pal," and he climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine.

In the dark, Rumple can't see Adela's expression, but he can hear a smile in her voice as she explains, "This is our ride."

The mini-van pulls out of the parking lot, revealing the vehicle that was parked behind it: Belle's Maserati. The driver's door pops open and Bertie emerges, looking elegant in his gray tux. "Head's up!" he calls, then he tosses the keys at Rumple, who catches them instinctively.

"You're letting me—?" he peers at Adela.

"Emma said to tell you since your driver's license is up-to-date, you're street legal. This is your wedding present." Adela kisses him on the cheek.

That's all the invitation he needs. He punches the buttons for the radio until he finds a classic rock station, then he cranks up the volume. He's rusty, and he's unfamiliar with the car, so the vehicle jerks a bit before he gets it onto the street, but in a few minutes they're cruising and Rumplestiltskin is having the time of his life. Bertie and Adela exchange a bemused glance as they are allowed a privilege not even Belle has experienced: Rumplestiltskin singing "Born to Be Wild," under his breath at first, but once they've hit the highway and are cruising at sixty-five, at the top of his not-so-melodic lungs.

* * *

The bridal party having confiscated the cabin for their own preparations, the groomsmen gather in a tent set up for the reception. It's a half-hour until sunrise and guests are making their way to Luna Lake, where rows of white wooden chairs have been set up, facing east, where the sun will rise over the quiet waters. Some of the Coon Cats, proudly dressed in their baseball uniforms, serve as ushers.

One hundred guests have been invited; all but one have RSVP'ed. On the bride's side sit Belle's many friends and business associates, most of them young couples; on the groom's side sit the many Storybrookers who have come to know Rumple-Gold after his incarceration: the Coon Cats, past and present, and their parents; and the people who came to Rumple-Gold for magic lessons but became his friends over the years. No one is here for Rumplestiltskin or Gold, except for Regina. Realizing this, Rumple-Gold realizes that he is indeed a new man, for none of the people sitting on his side of the aisle would have come for him, four years ago—unless it had been for his funeral. He accepts that: let the past be buried.

Gathered around him, lending him support with jokes and words of wisdom, are the men he now considers friends, though their relationships with him began otherwise: Archie, Bertie, Henry, Waldo and Leroy. They drink coffee and talk and glance outside at the pale pink ribbons streaking the sky. Every few minutes someone reports the time.

And then Adela, dressed as the other messengers are, in white silk and gossamer, comes running from the lake and seizes Rumple's arm. Her eyes are so bright they flash in the dark. "He's here," she reports breathlessly. "Come, He'd like to talk to you."

She leads him to the edge of the lake, where a figure in white stands, facing the water. A few feet away, she stops and gives him a little nudge. "Go ahead. He'd like to talk to you in private."

He grabs at her sleeve. He wants to ask her to stay with him but he's too proud to get the words out. She understands but shakes her head. "A father-to-son talk," she says, and walks back to the wedding party. He watches her a moment, then turns to face his fate. He walks forward.

When he's within a dozen feet, he pauses, wondering what's expected. How does one approach the Source of love and life? He wonders if he should kneel. Then the Master turns and smiles, and Rumple-Gold forgets about protocol, because the Master is familiar in form and manner: He looks exactly like Osbert. He opens his arms and Rumple-Gold, the ancient one, walks into them like a child.

"Thank you, son," the Master says, clutching him to His chest, "for including Me in this special day." His voice is familiar: Rumple-Gold has been listening to it closely every night.

All the aches and pains and guilt and anger of centuries leach out of his bones and Rumple-Gold feels ageless and fearless. The Master steps back enough to peer into his face.

Rumple feels no fear or shame in the presence of the Master, only peace. "Thank you for everything."

"It's almost time," the Master says, and Rumple knows He's referring to more than the wedding. "The time of transition will soon be over and a time of restoration will begin. I want you to lead it. You will mend all that you caused to break."

Rumple is tempted to argue: how can anyone be expected to follow him, after all the evil he's done? But this is the Master who's talking, so he knows the word will be made reality. Somehow.

"Your helpmeet will make it possible." The Master touches his cheek. "Trust each other as you've trusted the messengers I sent you; take strength from each other, and everything that fear and anger took from you will be restored. And remember I'm here for you, in all things and all places."

"I will, Master," Rumple whispers.

"It's sunrise." The Master sets His hands on Rumple's shoulder, urging him to turn. "It's time for you to make your vows." He leans in and says in Rumple's ear, "With love, all things are possible, and you, my lad, are loved."

Music starts to play: the current lineup of Coon Cats, directed by Beretrude, is lined up on the groom's side of the aisle; on the bride's side is a four-piece orchestra. As the audience quiets and Rumple and the Master take their places at the front, the children sing "Songbird."

Then the orchestra begins the familiar chords to the wedding march, the audience rises and everyone turns, the little flower girl steps with great dignity and purpose down the red carpet, scattering white and red rose petals from the basket on her arm. Right behind her come Snow and Bertie, then Emma and Henry. Rumple draws in a deep breath as his best men assume their positions at his side. Henry pats his breast pocket, then releases a small sigh of relief: the rings are safe. Rumple grins at him.

And then Belle appears. A diaphanous veil attached to a silver headpiece covers her face but can't hide her broad smile. Her short-sleeved, off-the-shoulder gown is white satin embroidered with silver roses; petticoats lend volume to the gown. In her left hand she holds a bouquet of white akito roses bound by silver ribbon; her right hand rests on her escort's arm.

A movement at his right causes Rumple to tear his eyes from his bride: Henry makes a small gesture of victory with his fist before returning to a dignified pose. Rumple follows Henry's gaze, past Belle to the man at her side. And then Rumple's mouth falls open: it's not Archie escorting Belle.

It's Moe. In a rather tacky checked woolen sports jacket and green-and-yellow striped tie.

As she moves slowly down the red carpet, Belle catches her groom's eye and winks, tilting her head toward her father. He understands: she's saying, _He's here_. He answers with a small tilt of his head toward his left: _So is He._

Belle and Moe reach the end of the red carpet. Belle hands her bouquet to Snow and lifts her veil. His face florid, Moe takes Belle's hand and places it in Rumple's. Moe then takes a seat in the front row.

The world shrinks for Rumple the moment Belle's hand meets his; there is nothing more in the moment besides her hand squeezing his reassuringly, her eyes seeking his and pledging forever, and the Master's voice, deep and serene.

"We are gathered here today to take part in the most time-honored celebration of the human family, uniting a woman and a man in marriage. Belle and Rumplestiltskin have come to witness before us, telling of their love for each other. We remember, theirs is a love whose source is the affection of the One who loved them into being.

"They are performing an act of complete faith, each in the other; that the heart of their marriage will be the relationship they create. In a world where faith often falls short of expectation, it is a tribute to these two who now join hands and hearts in perfect faith."

Adela appears at the Master's left and reads a poem:

"We, unaccustomed to courage  
exiles from delight  
live coiled in shells of loneliness  
until love leaves its high holy temple  
and comes into our sight  
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives  
and in its train come ecstasies  
old memories of pleasure  
ancient histories of pain.  
Yet if we are bold,  
love strikes away the chains of fear  
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity  
In the flush of love's light  
we dare be brave  
And suddenly we see  
that love costs all we are  
and will ever be.  
Yet it is only love  
which sets us free."

She takes a seat on the groom's side, and the Master turns to Rumple-Gold.

"Rumplestiltskin, will you receive Belle as your wife? Will you pledge to her your love, faith and tenderness, cherishing her with a husband's loyalty and devotion?"

Rumple answers clearly: "I will."

The Master turns to Belle.

"Belle, will you receive Rumplestiltskin as your husband? Will you pledge to him your love, faith and tenderness, cherishing him with a wife's loyalty and devotion?"

She directs her answer to her groom: "I will."

The Master smiles, and Rumple feels magic warming his skin, entering his blood stream—a magic different from any that's touched him before. It's clean and pure, like Beretrude's; it's sweet and gentle, like Adela's; it's playful and giving, like Waldo's; it's strong and forgiving, like Helewise's. It's more powerful than the combined magic of all the mages and demons and fairies that Rumplestiltskin has ever encountered, and there's not an ounce of uncertainty or selfishness in it.

"Belle and Rumplestiltskin, receive each other by saying now, each to the other, words which will tell of your love."

Rumple-Gold feels the words pouring from his heart: "'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

Belle too makes her vow: "'Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

The Master asks, "Will you now give and receive a ring?"

Belle and Rumple answer together, "We will."

Henry removes the rings from his pocket and grins in relief. His duties have now been completed, flawlessly.

Rumple gives the rings to the Master, who holds them in one hand and raises the other hand over them in a blessing. White light emanates from His hands and makes the rings glow. "This circlet of precious metal is justly regarded as a fitting emblem of the purity and perpetuity of the marriage state. The ancients were reminded by the circle of eternity, as it is so fashioned as to have neither beginning nor end; while platinum is so incorruptible that it cannot be tarnished by use or time. So may the union, at this time solemnized, be incorruptible in its purity and more lasting than time itself."

The Master gives the smaller ring to Rumple-Gold. As he slips it onto Belle's finger, he urges, "Wear this ring forever, Belle, as a symbol of love and of faith and of all that is unending."

The Master gives the remaining ring to Belle. As she slips it onto Rumple's finger, she urges, "Wear this ring forever, Rumplestiltskin, as a symbol of love and of faith and of all that is unending."

The Master continues, "We speak to Belle and Rumplestiltskin of love, in which the trust and freedom of the other person becomes as significant as the trust and freedom of one's self. We speak to them of generosity, which gathers the beauty of earth for riches, and the kindness which turns away the wrath of foolish men and women. We speak of each of our hopes for their continued growth through patience, one for the other. We speak of our confidence that new levels of understanding, discovered by them in experiences of sorrow and tribulation, shall bring ever new surprises of strength and fortitude they do not now know.

"In the years which shall bring Belle and Rumplestiltskin into greater age and wisdom, we pray that their love shall be ever young; that they shall be able always to recover from moments of despair. In this hope may they keep the vows made on this day, in freedom, teaching each other who they are, what they yet shall be, enabling them to know that in the fullness of being, they are more than themselves and more than each other; that they are all of us, and that together we share joyously the fruits of life."

The Master makes a spinning motion with His finger, and the couple turns to face their friends. "Inasmuch as Rumplestiltskin and Belle have declared their love and devotion to each other before family and friends, I now greet them with you as husband and wife."

The audience rises and applauds as Rumple-Gold grasps Belle's waist, draws her in and kisses her, the first kiss of their new life together, the first of a hundred thousand. "Please join us now on the front lawn," Belle invites the guests, and she and Rumple lead the way to a large white tent, under which tables are spread with flowers and china and waiters carrying silver trays await. The orchestra removes itself to the tent and begins to play as the guests filter back. Canapés and faux champagne are served, Archie reads a brief but heartfelt speech of welcome and of celebration for the union that has just taken place, and quiche, salad and croissants are served. Henry and Bertie offer toasts, and then Archie announces the first dance.

As Rumple rises and reaches his hand out to Belle, Adela moves to stand beside the orchestra and as the bride and the groom dance, she sings.

"_My darling lives in a world that is not mine_

_An old child misunderstood, out of time_

_Timeless is the creature who is wise_

_And timeless is the prisoner in disguise_

_Oh, who is the beauty, who the beast_

_Would you die of grieving when I leave_

_Two children to blind to see_

_I would fall in your shadow, I believe_

_My love is a man who's not been tamed _

_My love lives in a world of false pleasure and pain_

_We come from different worlds; we are the same_

_I never doubted your beauty; I've changed_

_Who is the beauty, where is my beast_

_There is no beauty without my beast_

_My beautiful, beautiful, beautiful beast"_

As the song ends, Rumple draws Belle in for a long kiss. As the Coon Cats replace Adela, singing "A Song for All Lovers," the guests join in the dance. When the third song begins, Rumple feels a tap on his shoulder. He opens his eyes in surprise.

"May I cut in?" Moe asks.

Rumple glances at Belle, who nods. He stands aside. "Of course." But he hasn't a chance to leave the dance floor: Adela appears before him and holds out her hands. It's fitting, he thinks as he clasps her hand: this has become the father-daughter dance. "May you always find joy when you look into each other's eyes, Rumplestiltskin," Adela says. "And the Master is well pleased."

Rumple glances around. He's been so wrapped up in Belle he's barely noticed the comings and goings around him. "Where is He?"

"He had to leave. There is an uproar in Hell today that needed to be attended to." Adela gives him a wry smile. "The Deceiver is raising cain; he's taken note of these proceedings and considers your marriage a major setback for his side."

"Really."

Adela rattles him with an additional announcement. "I'll be leaving today too. I have work elsewhere. . . preparations to make."

It strikes him he's losing another child, and he wants to argue, to complain, but he fights his way out of the selfishness. "Thank you, Adela, for all you've done for me."

"It was my honor, Rumplestiltskin. I'm glad I got to know you. And I will see you again. It won't be long. We will have work to do together. . . Papa." She gives him a peck on the cheek and walks away as the song ends.

But he hasn't time for the sweet sadness to creep over him: Belle returns to his arms.

His wife.

* * *

**A/N. The songs employed in this chapter were, in order, Steppenwolf's "Born to Be Wild," Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird," Stevie Nicks' "Beauty and the Beast" and John Denver's "A Song for All Lovers." The poem Adela recited was Maya Angelou's "Touched by an Angel." Thanks to Cynicsquest for the idea of the Coon Cats singing. The wedding material I borrowed from a website called Elegantweddingvows and of course Ruth 1:16, and Belle's wedding gown I based on the one worn by Trudie Styler when she married Sting.**


	63. Chapter 63

Sixty-Three

Emma gives Rumple-Gold a wink. "Got another little wedding present for you." She takes a last swig of the faux champagne, stands, and signals her staff, who begin to weave their way through the dancers, speaking quiet words of warning to each couple: "It's ten o'clock."

It works as well as any magic: the guests wander up to the bridal table to kiss the bride, shake the groom's hand, wish them the best and bid them farewell, apologizing for the necessity of the hasty departure, "but you know our son/my daughter/my niece/my whatever is in the parade so we have to get back into town." Not even Gold with the threat of a rent raise could have cleared the room as efficiently. And just to make sure the leave-taking goes smoothly, Emma's staff directs the traffic.

Rumple-Gold does something probably unprecedented in the history of convicts and law enforcement officers: he kisses Emma's cheek and thanks her. She looks at him askance, her expression revealing her surprise that the old crocodile would expose his soft side. But as Belle, her arm linked in her father's, waves goodbye to the last of the guests, the sheriff takes charge again. She draws him away from the stragglers in the tent and pulls him toward the lake. "I gotta cast the spell and I don't want to do it where others can see," she explains. "Don't worry about the chairs and everything: the rental place won't be coming for them until Monday. Oh, yeah," she snaps her fingers in remembrance and reaches into the little evening bag that swings off her belt—and that holds her gun. "Almost forgot. I have a little something for you." She presents Rumple with a small box.

"Should I wait for Belle to open it?"

"Nah, this is for you."

He peels the pale blue paper from the box and lifts the lid. It takes him a moment to realize what he's seeing, but as soon as he does, he makes the connection and chuckles. It's a ball of dust—a dust bunny. At the bottom of the box is a little handwritten card: "You deserve to be happy. Love, Helewise."

"She gave this to me three years ago, asked me to hold it until your wedding. She had faith in you, she said. She was something special."

"Very special," Rumple agrees. He pokes his finger at the dust bunny, then looks out to lawn, where Belle is deep in discussion with her father.

"Okay, magic time." Emma holds her palms up and summons her magic. It's green—appropriate, as she's never really developed it—and it fades in and out because it's uneducated, but after a failed attempt, she concentrates hard and gains control of it, and she recites the barrier spell. He has to correct her pronunciation—if he didn't, she would have transformed him into a peacock.

As the magic encases him, he can feel its raw strength and momentarily he regrets Emma's unwillingness to be trained: there's so much she could do, if she would accept the power she has. But he has come to cherish free will beyond power, so he won't try to persuade her to change her mind. The magic settles into his skin and the fight-or-flight instinct that's born into every human brain now numbs in his. His brain will not allow him to run away.

"Sorry," Emma shrugs. "_I _know—we know—" she nods toward her guards—"it's not necessary. Any fool who sees the way you look at Belle knows it's not necessary."

"The price of the deal," he says.

She then grins wickedly and leans forward, after a quick glance around to ensure they're not being overheard. "Okay, now here's my wedding gift: we're leaving. All of us. I gotta take your car, but then we're out of here. I'll be back at 8 Monday morning."

"But the deal with James and the Blue Fairy—"

"Screw 'em," Emma hisses. "I'm not sleeping in your guest room tonight just to keep 'em from freakin' out. The spell's enough. Hell, _your word_ is enough."

Rumple-Gold swallows hard. "Thanks, Emma."

"See ya Monday, Gold." She awkwardly pats his shoulder, then changes her mind and gives him a quick hug before joining her son at the Maserati.

And then for the first time in four years, he and Belle are alone. They look at each other, she from the lawn where she's just bid her father goodbye, he from the lake where his life has changed in just four hours. She gathers her skirts and runs into his arms.

"My love," he buries his face in her hair so she can't see he's overwhelmed.

"Take me inside, Rumplestiltskin," she whispers. "Husband."

He sweeps her up. She has to pat down her petticoats as they billow in the wind. He carries her through the aisle of white chairs, past the tent, to the cabin, to the one place on this earth that's really his, not something Regina assigned to him; to the one place he feels at home. And now it will be her home too. He nudges the door open with his shoulder and carries her over the threshold.

Glorious aromas fill his nose, make his mouth water, despite the brunch they've just had: the kitchen table has been laid with a white lace cloth, bone china, crystal and silver, a centerpiece of flowers, and two tall white candles. Freshly baked bread in a napkin-covered basket, a dish of butter, silver salt and pepper shakers, a bowl of fresh fruit, await. On the stove a tea kettle and covered pans stay warm over low heat. A scent he can't identify comes from the oven.

Belle smiles. "Are you hungry, husband?"

He doesn't want to let go of her, but. . . ."It smells so good—"

She chuckles. "It's all right. I'm hungry too. Granny and Ruby did all this, and the china and crystal and all, they're from Regina. You may set me down, husband, and let's enjoy what our friends have prepared for us." Just before he releases her, she presses her mouth against his ear, and the vibrations of her voice reach all the way down to his toes. "And afterward, let's enjoy each other."

They open the oven, uncover the pots, pour the tea. Their bounty is fit for a queen: roast pheasant, sweet potatoes, parsnips, crème brulee. As he dishes out the food, she runs into the bathroom, and when she emerges she's wearing something he finds even more beautiful, more welcoming, that her wedding dress: a robin's egg blue jumper with a full skirt, a laced bodice and a white blouse.

He almost drops the pheasant off its platter.

"Regina's dressmaker made it for me," she says, swishing the skirt about her legs. "I love the clothes in this world, but sometimes, I miss my old dresses."

"Me too," he admits. He sets the pheasant down on the table and comes to her. "My darling wife. . . ." He takes her into his arms.

"Yes, my handsome husband?"

"Just how hungry are you?"

She dimples. "Why? Have you suddenly lost your appetite?"

"Suddenly found a new one." He lifts her chin and gives her a light kiss, a question that she answers by wrapping her arms around him. With a small groan he cups her face with both hands, crushes his mouth against hers, first demanding in his urgency, then easing, to explore the mouth he knows so well already. There is no one to watch, no one to hear; they're together and they're alone, and the sense of freedom mixes with the scent of her perfume and the irresistible softness of her skin beneath his hands, and the urgency rises in him again. He pushes her hair back from her shoulders and kisses a trail from her neck to the delicate skin beneath her collarbone. She's so warm and yielding, and her eyes darken and blaze as her breath catches. He can't hold her close enough, he can't touch enough or taste enough to satisfy his need for her. "I love you, Belle," he manages, before his throat tightens and he can no longer speak. He sweeps her up again and carries her into their bedroom.

* * *

They arise before the sun in the hope of catching fish for dinner, though it really doesn't matter: Snow has seen to it that the larder is well stocked. Belle leans against his shoulder, idly watching the ripples form around her line. Moonlight reflecting off the water gradually surrenders to sunlight, and it's all so beautiful they can't speak.

At last he remembers they are material beings, and so they need nourishment. "Let's get some breakfast." He sets their poles aside, stands and offers her his hand.

"Can we come back after?" she asks.

"We have all day," he assures her, sliding his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close as they walk.

"Rumple?"

"Yes, my love?"

"That was really Him, yesterday? Marrying us?"

"Really Him."

"He couldn't stay? I would have liked to meet Him."

"Something urgent came up."

"Do you think I'll ever meet Him?"

He kisses her forehead. "I think you already know Him, far better than I."

* * *

On Monday at 8 o'clock the Maserati pulls into the drive. "Sorry, Gold," Emma smiles apologetically. She's come alone—that's how much she trusts him. "You want to drive or sit in the back with your wife?"

"We'll sit in the back," Rumple answers, with a last look at the cabin. He opens the driver's side door for Emma, and when she's seated behind the wheel, he opens the back door and helps Belle in.

"Emma?" Belle asks.

"Yeah?"

"Drive slow, please."

Emma's voice clutches as she answers, "Yeah."

In the hospital parking lot, Emma and Rumple slide out of the Maserati and Belle takes the wheel. It's a great fit, Rumple thinks, Belle and this car. A serene voice deep in his mind adds, _It's a great fit, Belle and you._ He thanks the Master for that as he and Emma wave to goodbye to Belle, who does nothing to hide her tears as she drives away.

When the spell has been removed from him and he's locked behind the bars again, Regina calls to him. "I'm sorry, Rumple. That you had to come back, I mean."

He sits down at his wheel and begins to spin. "It won't always be like this," he says, and he's sure of it.

* * *

"Hi, honey, I'm home!"

He's always wanted to say that and now he can, and mean it. This cabin is home to him. Belle is home to him. She flies into his arms, knocking him off-balance and they nearly fall to the floor until he manages to spin them around at the last minute and they land instead on the couch. He draws in a deep breath, taking in her perfume, the bread she has baking in the oven, the crisp fresh air of the woods, and he buries his face in her shoulder, wishing he had the magic to lock them into this moment. It's too perfect to let go of, he thinks, and then she flings herself upon him, pushing him onto his back, and she stretches across him to capture his mouth, and he surrenders to her most willingly. As she shivers with pleasure, he realizes that no, _this _is the most perfect moment, until she rises on her elbows and plucks at the buttons of his shirt, freeing him of the encumbrance of clothes. They have twenty-four hours' worth of perfect moments to enjoy before they must go back to Storybrooke, to the prison, to the travel agency, to real life.

She has the curtains nailed—yes, nailed—back so he can never close them. She has the windows open, and he can hear trees whispering and birds singing of love, and he can see bright blue sky and flawless white clouds over Belle's shoulder, and he knows this is a blessing, all of it, a blessing he will never ever stop being thankful for.

* * *

It's the first of April, and that means it's the first day of the baseball season for Storybrooke's kids. So much has changed since Henry first started bringing the kids in to see Rumplestiltskin; this season, Rumple and Belle are especially cognizant of the changes. There's so much to celebrate that Belle is planning a Thanksgiving dinner four months early—on June 1, the day before Henry graduates high school.

As this year's lineup gathers at Rumple's feet for the daily story, the prisoner feels a twinge of nostalgia: the only original Cat appearing today is Henry, and he's now the coach. Over the years, somehow these story sessions have become a part of Coon Cat mythology: just as the players must kneel and touch home base before every practice and wear their socks inside out on game days, they must also have their daily story. To violate any one of those traditions will surely bring bad luck. Neither Rumple nor Henry points out that, statistically, the traditions have been no guarantee of a winning season: both men know that children must have a sense of magic.

Rumple looks up to him now, literally as well as figuratively: he's eighteen, six-two and 190 pounds, and in two months he'll be going out into the world. They've been talking about that, Rumple-Gold and Henry, confidentially. Henry's got a secret that he's afraid to tell his grandparents and mothers: Henry doesn't want to go to college.

The withdrawn, bookish boy that Rumple remembers from the curse days has a longing for adventure and exploration. After a lifetime of reading about faraway places, he wants to see some. When he revealed this news, late last year, Rumple neither encouraged nor discouraged the notion; he just listened. Which is why Henry confided in him in the first place.

Belle arrives halfway into the story, bringing lemon bars and juice boxes. She's heard this story six times before, so she can pick up the thread of it easily at any point, but for the Cats' sake she puts on her newbie face. Rebel leaps out of the tote bag and makes her rounds, greeting each Cat before jumping onto her human's shoulder.

As he's wrapping up the story, Rumple studies each child's face, hoping that when they're grown they will retain a sliver of the sense of wonder they feel right now. As he glances at Henry and Belle, he knows it's possible.

* * *

"Sooo," James drawls, still awkward when it comes to anything personal with Rumplestiltskin. "How's married life treating you?"

"Fine. Thank you, James."

"Okay then." James opens his briefcase and lays out maps and photos and newspaper articles. "Looks like we're going to make our deadline."

Rumple rifles through the photos, which show brand-new roads, houses, a park, a school. He raises an eyebrow: the houses have been built to the buyers' specifications, he knows, but it's odd how similar they are to Storybrooke's houses. Apparently no one wanted to return to the look of olden times. Just as well, he supposes: with all the modern conveniences, castles and cottages would probably clash. An image flashes into his imagination and makes him chuckle: Eustace's cottage with an air conditioner hanging in the window and a microwave oven above the fireplace.

"Congratulations, James. Looks like it's come together just as planned."

"Everything works." The king-turned-mayor sighs. "It's a nice town, everything we wanted it to be."

"But?"

James picks up a handful of newspaper articles and tosses them onto Rumple's lap. The prisoner skims them. "Oh." He tosses the articles back into the briefcase. The citizens' confidence in Storybrooke II has fallen steadily. Everyone seems to have a vague sense that Fairytale Land had to be rebuilt, but no one wants to move back, not even into the brand-new, custom-made houses that their taxes have paid for.

"We open September 1. You got any ideas?"

"Marketing?" Rumple suggests. He's never given advertising much thought: when you're the most powerful mage in the world, an occasional flashy trick here and there is enough to spur demand and raise prices. "I don't know. Belle's got more experience with that than I do. I'll ask her this—" he cuts off abruptly.

"You got something?" James leans on his elbows.

"Just remembering. . . Belle's first marketing campaign, for the Internet café. I don't know. . . ." Before he can form the memory into an idea, the upstairs door bangs open and the pitter-patter of little cleated feet storms down the stairs. Henry, moving at a slower pace as befitting his status as a high-school senior, brings up the rear. "Oh, hey, gramps," he greets James, with a note of uncertainty in his voice that reminds Rumple that Henry will graduate soon and the lad still hasn't shared his secret with his family.

"Hi, Mayor Nolan," the children call out, then quickly lose interest in the younger man. They flop on the floor, on the throw rugs that Emma learned long ago to provide for this purpose, and their attention hones in on the old prisoner. "Rumplestiltskin, tell us a story!" And each one rattles off a different title he or she wants to hear. They've heard most of these stories before, from older children or from their parents, who got them from Rumple, but repetition never offends a child; besides, who better to tell these stories than the one who lived them?

The smallest and newest Coon Cat, Kylie's little sister, pipes up the loudest: "Tell us about how Snow White defeated the cruel king and took back the kingdom."

Rumple and the mayor exchange a painful glance, and Rumple gently amends the child's description. "Actually, that was Snow White and her husband Prince Charming who defeated the king and returned the kingdom to peace and prosperity under their joint—" he suddenly pauses as a raw thought, like the first flower of spring breaking through half-frozen soil, emerges.

"Leadership," Rumple says, thinking aloud.

James wants to know, "What about leadership?"

But Rumple raises a staying hand. "I don't quite have it yet. Let me work it out. Meantime, perhaps, Mr. Mayor, you'd like to help me with this story?"

"Oh, I don't—"

Rumple informs the children, "The mayor was there too, so he can provide an eyewitness account." He adds confidentially to the children, "As some of you already know, Mayor Nolan was Prince Charming in those days."

So the story is told by two narrators, one reluctant at first, but watching his grandson's reactions from the corner of his eye, he soon enters into the full spirit of the telling. Through the corner of _his_ eye, Rumple watches the mayor try to impress Henry: Rumple is aware he's watching a shift in the relationship, a shift that, had he raised Bae to adulthood, he would have experienced for himself. James is aware he's soon to lose Henry to the world, as nature dictates: Henry must strike out for himself, find his own path, make his own hero's journey. Henry will wind his way back home, of course, but when he does their relationship won't be the same; if the Charmings and yes, Regina, and all the other adults in Henry's life have done their jobs well, when Henry returns he will meet James again as a man.

As a leader. It's Henry's heritage. It's Henry's duty.

Rumple's eyes blaze. He has the answer now. And it's _right_. The back of his brain where he hears the Master's voice is vibrating, so he knows for certain it's right.

Belle and Rebel arrive and quietly take their usual seats to listen to the story as it bounces back and forth between its narrators. She's heard her beloved tell it many times, she's even read written accounts—far from accurate, Rumple sniffs—but it's rare for James to share his own history, so this telling is special.

When it has finished and Henry is rounding up his charges for the afternoon practice, Rumple changes the game plan. "Mr. Mayor, perhaps you could get the team started in their workout? I'd like a brief word with Henry."

James runs his hands down his suit jacket. "Oh, well, I'm not really dressed for it—"

"Just a few minutes. And then I may have that idea you were looking for." He smiles, and James glances at him sharply: he looks so much like the Rumplestiltskin of old when he smiles like that, as though he holds all the world's secrets in the palm of his hand.

"Okay," James agrees, collecting his maps and newspaper articles. With his briefcase in one hand, he shoos the children with his other hand. "To the diamond, then."

When they have gone, Belle dimples. She knows that smile too; it means a deal is about to be offered. Her husband passes the cat through the bars of the cell so he can stand, the better to gesture in his grand way, and she chuckles: whatever he has in mind, it's a lulu.

"What's up, Mr. Gold?" Henry crosses his arms. He senses that this revelation will be something he ought to resist, at least, until negotiations have passed and Rumple has sweetened the deal in Henry's favor.

"Henry, you've always enjoyed these stories I've told, of knights and dragons and swords and magic."

"Yeeees," Henry admits slowly.

"Even now, though you're grown and not so easily impressed."

"Yeah, well, they've come to mean something different for me now. They're, like, family history."

"And what about the stories captures your imagination now? It's not the magic, is it, because magic is part of everyday life here. And not the mythological beasts, because they don't exist any more, or the sword fights."

"No." Henry rubs his chin to ponder. "I don't know. I guess it's the whole spirit of it—guys going off into the unknown, testing themselves, fighting for what's right. Adventure. Bravery. Taking chances. Like my gramps and my grandma did, like my mom when she went into the basement of the library."

"What if I could offer you an opportunity to do something similar? To join their ranks as a hero and a leader?" Rumple jabs with an imaginary sword. "To find your own story?"

Henry grins wryly. "I guess I'd have to listen. What've you got in mind, Mr. Gold?"

"Something more daring than paintball, my friend." Rumple sits down and crosses his legs, a signal that an explanation is about to begin, followed by negotiation. "Something that you'll need Belle and Jefferson to help with. Henry, I want to make you a pied piper."

* * *

That evening at lights' out, Beretrude stops by his cell. "Did you convince him?'

She wasn't on duty when Henry was here, but Rumple doesn't need to ask how she knows about his sales pitch to Henry. He nods. "He'll start talking around about it tomorrow. He'll have a group ready on the day the ribbon is cut." Rumple need no longer ask the messengers if he's doing the right thing. He hears the Master's voice as clearly as theirs.

"Then it's almost time," Beretrude says softly as she turns out the lights. "The Master will honor His end of the bargain."

* * *

**A/N. The spirit guide for this chapter was Stevie Nicks' "Unconditional Love." Coming up: a new occupation for Henry; a family is restored.**


	64. Chapter 64

Sixty-Four

**A/N. Setting the tone for this chapter was Jackson Browne's "Alive in the World." ****This chapter's for you, Grace! And Jaselin, have faith. . . .**

* * *

He's thinking about the roles he's played in his long life, which ones he'd like to keep and which to throw away.

Army deserter

Deal maker

Mage

Dark One

Trickster

Killer

Bully

Landlord

Pawnbroker

Tyrant

Those he would throw away, if he could.

Son

Husband

Father

Friend

Counselor

Those he would keep. It's not lost on him that all the keepers define him by his relationship to other people, while the rejects define him by his relationship to power.

The one exception is _spinner_. It defines him, he believes, by his relationship to himself.

* * *

Henry has asked for a meeting, a _formal_ meeting, with his mothers and his grandparents, and they're nervous.

Worse, he's asked that the meeting be held in the mayor's office, and he's asked that Jefferson, Belle and Rumple-Gold be seated at the table. Naturally, James puts his foot down. He's not so bothered by the request for Rumple: the old imp, as Emma reports every month, has given no cause for concern, neither in the overnight passes he's been granted, nor in the Storybrooke II planning meetings he's been escorted to. In fact, James admits confidentially to Emma and Snow (though he'd never want the citizenry to hear of it), he's kind of gotten to know Rumple over the years and there's a groundwork of respect between the two. (Emma shrugs at this and remarks that she's always thought if he weren't so damn sneaky Gold might have been a decent enough guy, and Snow just smiles.)

No, it's Regina whom James is worried about. She hasn't caused any trouble either, Emma points out—though a note of amazement lies under her remark. Maybe, after all, there was some sort of truth to Gold's claim of brainwashing. But to allow Regina to return, literally, to the seat of her power—to walk into the mayor's office as if she had a right to be there—might be pushing things too far, like inviting a drug addict into an opium den. At this, Emma brings out her four secret weapons, any one of them assurance enough, she believes, that Regina won't try any funny stuff: she points to Henry, then she reaches into her jacket and sets onto the Charmings' dining table her gun, her handcuffs, and a crumpled sheet of paper.

Snow picks it up and the teacher in her pops up. "Honey, you really need to work on your penmanship. I can't read a thing here."

"Instructions from Gold," Emma explains, in her usual brusque way. "I asked him today for an immobilization spell. If Regina so much as sneezes without my say-so—" Emma raises her hand and produces a burst of magic that causes a bird on the window sill to go perfectly still. "Aw, Emma," Snow clicks her tongue, "don't go picking on birds now!" Emma releases it but cocks her head at her father that asks if he's satisfied. He nods. "All right, but you take three of your guards with you."

"Deal," Emma smirks, not at all put off by the fact that her smirk is a copy of Gold's.

When Henry first requests Rumple's presence at this meeting, the latter hesitates: it's a family matter, isn't it? He doesn't have to say what he's thinking: Henry's a man now and must stand on his own two feet. If he can't confront his family, he's not ready to lead. But Henry explains that he's included Rumple not as a source of moral support, but as an expert, just as Belle and Jefferson will be there to provide their own expertise, should technical questions arise, once Henry's introduced his plan.

"What am I an expert on?" Rumple shrugs.

Henry looks him square in the eye. "Faith."

* * *

Acting on Rumple's advice, Henry calls the meeting for the next day. He will allow no time for speculation and rumor to grow: he's going to confront this thing head-on.

And so they convene in the mayor's office, around the long wooden table that James uses for committee meetings—he's sold off Regina's elegant furnishings to raise a little capital for Storybrooke II.

"Family," Henry begins, looking directly at Regina; Rumple winks at Belle, for they both know Henry now has his adoptive mom in the palm of his hand. "Friends. I've made a decision." He stands and faces Emma, in a show of respect. "I won't be going to college this fall."

He waits, giving his family time to react, and of course James and Snow do, quickly and negatively, but Emma nods: she's confessed previously to Rumple that she recognizes restlessness in her son, a wanderlust that she thinks he's inherited from her. Rumple answered gently, "Maybe he just has to find his own Storybrooke, as you did."

Regina earns Belle and Rumple's respect: she withholds her reaction until she's heard more. This is a far cry from the controlling mother she started out to be.

"I may someday pursue a degree, but for now, it's not right for me. I think I have another calling." He scans their faces. "Storybrooke II needs a mayor; I plan to run."

His family members fall into a stunned silence for a long moment. Meanwhile, the friends of the family—Jefferson, Belle and Rumple-Gold, hold their tongues, but it's pretty easy to see they're all supportive of the idea. Perhaps it's simply easier for friends to perceive a young man as just that: a man.

"It is the family business," Regina ventures, but James shoots her a scowl. If Henry had listened to him all long, no one in the Charming family would have any dealings with the former queen.

"Now, Henry, politics is a rough business, and it's real easy to lose yourself in it, if you don't know what you're doing," James protests. "Believe me. I got into a few scrapes myself—and I was a king once." She squeezes Snow's hand. "I also had your grandmother's help, and your mom's."

"I think I'll have their help too, and yours, and Regina's."

Regina nods. "Of course. Any time."

"But, honey, it's not like you're moving to Portland or Augusta. You're literally moving to another world," Snow reminds him. "You can't just pick the phone and call if you need us."

"Call, no. But I can drop in any time. You see, Belle and Jefferson are opening a second office in Storybrooke II."

Jefferson slides color brochures to everyone at the table and shifts into salesman mode. "It'll be fully staffed, 40 hours a week, with an office manager, a receptionist and three full-time travel agents. Transportation to our home office here will be offered around the clock, appointments preferred but not required. Total transportation time: five minutes, ten seconds. A one-way ticket runs $30 per person on weekdays, $50 on weekends. An extra $25 if you'd like to go first class."

"Which gets you hors d'ourves and champagne at the end of the journey," Belle adds. "However, all government officials travel free when they're on official business. That includes law enforcement."

"So you see, advice is just minutes a way if I need it."

"But you're so young," James states the obvious.

"So will everyone else be." Henry's prepared for this one. He sets a briefcase on the table, snaps it open, and lifts out a folder, which he spreads open. He presents his evidence: "_Storybrooke Mirror, _last week, metro section. The latest poll shows 13% of the current residents of Storybrooke plan to move to Storybrooke II between September 1 and December 31. Another 17% say they plan to relocate within five years. I know how hard you've worked, Gramps, to build Two and make it great. I know how disappointed you are that people seem to be losing interest. But Gramps, it's not Storybrooke Two that's the problem. It's the polls. The newspaper—and your office—have been asking the wrong people." He holds up a sheet of paper. "This is a pledge my civics class circulated among the students this year. The signers have all pledged to move to Storybrooke II within two years of graduation from high school."

"What's that, about fifty, sixty names?" James squints at the paper.

And then Henry adjusts his hold on the sheet and shakes it, and it unrolls across the table, stretching from Henry at the head to Belle in the middle. "Four hundred ninety-one." He glances at Rumple. "Including 90% of the Coon Cats."

Belle whispers to Rumple, "Your stories!"

Henry continues, "Two hundred and thirty-seven are seniors. Most of them will leave with me on September 1."

Seated next to Emma, Rumple detects a change in her posture that signals movement in her opinion. She's not decided yet, and that's a good thing: she's listening.

"We'll be offering free hourly trips between the Storybrookes that day," Jefferson adds.

"But the same number that go in have to come out," Snow points out.

"Right. That's why the trips that run on the even-numbered hours will be round trips; the odd-numbered hours will be one-ways."

"Gramps, Gran, I know you think I'm awfully young for this level of responsibility."

Snow cocks her head, a sparkle in her eyes that makes her husband uncomfortable. "Actually, Henry, I've always thought you were quite mature for your age. An old soul. I guess I'm being selfish, but I just always pictured you at Boston U someday—where you could come home on weekends."

Henry comes around the table to hug Snow. "I'll always come home, Gran. I'm just five minutes away." He rubs her back as she leans into him.

"Why don't we compromise?" Snow suggests. "Take one year of college, Henry, and if at the end of it you still want to move to the Enchanted Forest, I'll support that decision. But at least give yourself one year to study and to be _young_, instead of growing up so fast."

"If it's true that evil isn't born, it's made, perhaps it's also true that heroes must be made too," Rumple says quietly. "And it's a journey that makes them. That was true for you, James: you discovered what you were capable of when you left home to become a dragon slayer." He smiles at Emma. "Like father, like daughter. It wasn't until you faced down three dragons that you realized what a hero you are."

"Three dragons?" James echoes. "Maleficent the only one I know about. Emma, have you been holding out on us?"

"I think he means himself and Regina," Emma chuckles.

"Our teeth were every bit as sharp as Mal's," Rumple points out. "And you, Snow, you surprised yourself and everyone else when you not only survived for years in the wilderness, but thrived."

James squeezes his wife's hand. "The first time I met her, she beat me up. I never knew a princess could be so tough and so sexy."

"Everyone in the Charming family made the hero's journey," Rumple observes. "Is it surprising, then, that Henry feels the same call? The hero doesn't choose the time—if he did, he'd never leave the farm. The time chooses the hero. Perhaps, Snow, this is Henry's time."

"It's just that I hate to think of Henry being alone. At least I had Red, and James had the other knights, and Emma had me," Snow hangs on to the last thread, but her voice trails off; she knows what Emma has suspected from the beginning.

"Your mind is made up, isn't it," Emma surmises.

"It is. I'd like to go with your blessing, but I'm going. I have to do what I think is right for me."

"Yes, you do," Emma decides. "You got my blessing. And if it'll help, my endorsement for your campaign."

James sighs. "All right. You got my endorsement too. I kind of like the idea of keeping Storybrooke II in the family."

"You promise to come home at least once a month? And send a message with one of my birds if you ever need anything. I mean it," Snow urges.

"I will, Gran. Of course I will. And don't worry; I won't be alone. I'll have two hundred grads coming with me."

* * *

Emma tries to appear stoic and she almost gets away with it: she permits no frown lines, no creases around her mouth, no bags under her eyes. But Rumple-Gold has come to know her well over these past five years, and he can detect small differences: a slight slump of her shoulders, slower steps, a little less certainty in her responses. She's on the edge between one stage her life and the next, and it's a shame no one here—no one—has made this passage before. If, as nature intended, she looks to the generation preceding her for guidance, she finds no one: her parents and Rumple have had children wrenched from them at much too young an age, and Granny has always had Ruby.

Emma is something new in Storybrooke: a mother of a grown child. An empty nester. But she need not be alone. Rumple-Gold sees a way to help her, but he knows she must be shown, not told—if he told her what he was thinking, she'd freak.

Because the person she needs to walk along this path with—the one person who will share her feelings—is Regina. And though they have come to terms, Henry's mothers have never completely let go of their rivalry.

In their Cabin Days—that's what Belle calls the one weekend (having proven themselves trustworthy, they are now allowed two nights) each month when she and Rumple are alone together in their home in the West Woods—he discusses the situation with Belle. He hears Regina's muffled sobbing each night, he watches Emma walk away from half-eaten sandwiches, and as the weeks pass, her jeans hang loose on her hips and her energy wanes. "They could help each other through this," Rumple tells Belle. "They have the exact same problem."

But Belle shakes her head. "They'll have to see that for themselves. They hate each so bad, if you said anything to either one of them, you'd kill any chance that they someday lower their guard long enough to talk."

He smiles a little. "Regina never could be led—only pushed. And Emma's the same way."

Belle giggles. "Funny how that worked out, isn't it?" And then she slips her arms around her husband's waist. "That day when you had your first vision of Emma, did you see then what she would become?"

"Only that she would slay dragons." He plays with a lock of Belle's hair, soft as the silk he spun for her wedding dress. "And that her own heart would be greatest weakness."

"Did you ever see me in your visions?" she teases.

"No," he answers honestly. "You've been a constantly wonderful surprise."

* * *

But now that he's set her mind on that track, Belle gets an idea, and it's brilliant. In the guise of introducing the science of realm jumping to the families whose children will be moving to Storybrooke II in September, she invites them to a meeting. There are too many of them to host the gathering in the travel agency, so James arranges for her to use City Hall. He too, and Snow, will attend, to lend their official support to the venture, for it's his political future on the line, if Storybrooke II fails—and it's his grandson, along with two hundred others, who will be leaving.

Regina asks to be included, and the Charmings can't very well say no. Emma takes her in the squad car, and of course remains beside her throughout the evening, keeping her bound by magic restraints.

Belle begins the meeting by urging the families to get to know one another in addition to getting to know the magic that will be transporting their children. "You may find you can help each other in ways that we realm jumpers can't." She asks each listener to turn to the parent nearest him or her, exchange phone numbers, and share thoughts about their children's upcoming adventure—and she smiles slyly, because of course the parent standing nearest to Emma is Regina.

* * *

"And they talked," Belle reports to Rumple the next day. "Awkwardly, at first, and then Regina admitted she was having trouble letting Henry go, and Emma admitted she wasn't exactly thrilled either."

"That sounds exactly like Emma," Rumple says.

"I don't know if I can go so far as to say they connected, but at least they listened to each other. We kept it short, just ten minutes—after all, we were supposed to be there to talk about realm jumping."

"It's better that way," Rumple points out. "Desensitization is best done is small increments."

"It did Jefferson some good too. He got into a conversation with Kylie's parents; Grace and Kylie are both moving to Two. Even though he can see her over there any time he wants, it's still hard on him, letting her go after having been apart from her for so long." She pauses, and she looks sad. "I was just thinking about Bae. At least all these other parents have had a chance to reconnect with their children." She brushes a tear away. "I'm sorry, Rumple. Emma and I are still trying, but. . . ."

"Don't feel bad, sweetheart. I will see him again." Rumple-Gold smiles, and she can see it's genuine.

* * *

One afternoon, Emma pulls up a chair outside Regina's cell. She unwraps a pastrami sandwich and offers Regina half, and they talk quietly. Rumple-Gold can't hear what they're saying, and that's good. He notices that Regina accepts the sandwich, and that's good too.

Regina hates pastrami.

* * *

On July 4, though it's not a weekend, Belle and Rumple are permitted a Cabin Day. They have been married one year, the paper anniversary, so they've written letters to each other.

Rumple's letter to Belle is twenty-three pages long.

She holds her hand to her mouth as she counts the pages, and then she begs him to read it aloud to her, so that at nights when she's alone and she reads it herself, she'll have the memory of his voice to read along with her. They stretch out on a picnic blanket beside the lake and she lies with her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat and his voice vibrating as he reads to her.

When he finishes, they lie quiet, holding each other, listening to the birds chirping in the trees, the fishing jumping in the lake.

She makes him wait until they've retired for the night before she gives him her letter. He asks her to read it to him, but she shakes her head. "You might not like it." She sits at the foot of the bed, watching him, as he sits at the head of the bed and opens the envelope. He tries to not reveal his disappointment when he discovers there is only one page, and there is only one sentence on the page.

Her smile quavers.

And then he reads the sentence, and it's the most powerful sentence he's ever read. Her eighteen words carry more magic than any spell book.

"My darling husband,

Where you go, we go, now and forever, if you will have us.

Love, Belle."

He has to read it twice to fully understand, but when he does, he lays his head in her lap, clutching her and the letter together.

"It's not what we planned. . . ." she begins.

"It's what we _want_," he finishes. "So much. It's not ideal, Belle, but she'll never have a moment's doubt that she's loved."

"We'll make it work." She strokes his hair fondly. "And it's a boy, husband. I can feel it."

"No." He sits up and grins at her. "Trust me on this: it's a girl. And she's a gift from True Love."


	65. Chapter 65

Sixty-Five

**A/N. The spirit for this chapter came from the Police's "Secret Journey." This chapter is my thank you to all of you who've stuck with this story, who have offered ideas and encouragement; you've been wonderful. **

* * *

Belle wants to keep her condition a secret for as long as possible, probably another two months, and Rumple agrees. They both know there will be gossip, some of it nasty. . . a lot of it nasty. For some, it will be another opportunity to take pot shots at the once-powerful dealmaker; others will sincerely believe they're speaking in the best interests of the child.

He worries how the gossip—whether it's whispered behind her back or flung in her face—will affect Belle: in her condition, she may be especially vulnerable. They do have friends who will tend her needs, escorting her to doctor's appointments and baby care classes, making sure she eats well and takes walks in the evening. . . defending her against the nastiness. She will survive it all, he has no doubt, but surely a mother-to-be has a right to enjoy her pregnancy, and he fears certain people will take that away from her.

Worse, he worries about his daughter, who will have to learn to fight back at an early age, who will be pushed to feel ashamed of her father, who may grow bitter or reclusive or vindictive. Will she find friends? Opportunities to find herself, to make her own hero's journey? Or will the shadow of her father hang over her all her life?

And even if society shows mercy, how can this child have her best chance when her father is so far removed from her?

His guilt will be passed on to those he loves. And he's not even sure how this happened. At his age, he knew enough to take precautions; never once did he fail in that regard.

Late at night, staring at the moon, he takes his worry, his fear, his shame to the Master, and he is answered immediately: _Take joy in what I have given you. This child will have all she needs; commend her to My care. She is a blessing to you and to her world. _

And Beretrude comes to sit beside him. She waves her hand, and the bars of his cell vanish, but he realizes it's merely an illusion. "If these bars disappeared tonight and you could walk home and spend the rest of your life with your family, would you still be in doubt?"

He considers the question, then slowly shakes his head.

"You did the right thing when you turned yourself in, Rumplestiltskin. You did the right thing when you married Belle. And the Master did the right thing when He gave you this child." Beretrude pats his hand. "The Master gave you the power of imagination. Use it, when you look at these bars, and make them disappear, so you can give your family your joy."

She walks away, passing through the bars.

* * *

An election for the Storybrooke II city council and mayor is held; only the two hundred are permitted to vote. The campaign period runs two weeks, and then the pioneers line up in the high school gym to cast their ballots. Elyse Hubbard and Charlene Shoemaker run against Henry, but Henry has the endorsements that impress voters: no, not James' or Emma's, but four years' worth of Coon Cats. Henry wins in a landslide. He calls the first meeting of the city council the very next day, so they can begin to form the infrastructure of their new community.

James and Regina sit at the back of the council chambers. He holds a copy of the Storybrooke Charter on his lap; she holds the Municipal Code. They remain silent until called upon to answer a procedural question. In three days, Storybrooke II has its own founding documents.

The town is a flurry of activity as it prepares for the opening of its sister city, and the loss of two hundred of its children.

Stores open early and close late; freight trucks arrive daily, bringing the supplies the children—or more accurately, the young men and women—will need, and Belle hires a temporary workforce to transport it all, everything from tea cups to snow shovels, and crates of canned goods. School being out of session, the teaching staff coordinates the move. Belle's visits to the prison shorten. Rumple understands; she's vital to the operation, and he's glad she has this opportunity to show what she can do. . . and to be out of earshot of the gossip. When she does visit, she's glowing, for more reason than one.

He shows her only excitement, confidence and joy; she never suspects he's had doubts. He has a talent for masks. And it's becoming a little easier; each night, in the comfort of his talks with the Master, he lets go of a little more doubt. His imagination paints a picture that he clings to: he and Belle in the cabin, seated before a crackling fire, their daughter on his lap, and somewhere in the shadows behind them, Bae.

The pioneers—that's what they've come to call themselves—and their wagon master will leave in thirty days. The Charmings and many other parents will accompany them, just for the day. Belle apologizes, but she won't be able to visit the prison that day; her services will be required around the clock. She promises to film some of the exodus with her Smartphone. There will be speeches, a ribbon cutting and a feast on the other side.

Belle's natural state is cheerfulness, but he's never seen her so happy. In the few seconds in which she's not in motion, she lays her hand on her belly. She isn't aware she's doing it and thereby drawing attention to her condition, which will become obvious in a few more weeks. She whispers to her husband that she hasn't had a single bout of morning sickness or a single crazy craving; she takes this a sign that her body was made for this work. She says this as she munches on apple slices dipped in mustard.

One morning as she's dressing for work, she discovers she can no longer button her blazer. She stands sideways before her full-length mirror, admiring the bump. As she tells him this tale, she lowers the waistband of her slacks so he can see what she's seen. He strokes her taut belly and says, "Hello, my darling girl." And then they admit it's time to inform their friends.

Belle goes first to her father. She arrives at Game of Thorns in the early morning hours; he always gets to work early for the delivery from the nursery. She tells him as landscaping plants are being unloaded: most of these will be taken to Storybrooke II, so the pioneers will have something to remind them of home. "I told him, 'You have two choices: you can snub this baby for being Rumplestiltskin's child, in which case you're also snubbing me; or you can welcome this baby as your grandson, and make us all very happy. This baby deserves a grandfather.'"

"What did he say?" Rumple asks anxiously.

She reaches into her tote. Her hand shakes as she withdraws a small envelope, the kind that florists attach to gifts of flowers. "He grabbed me and hugged me, nearly squeezed the stuffing out of me. And then he ran inside the shop and brought this back out, told me to give it to you."

The envelope reads simply "Gold." Inside is a little card decorated with balloons and baby bottles shaped to spell out "Congratulations on Your New Baby." On the back of the card is scribbled, "Thank you. Moe."

Rumple shows her the card. He can find no words.

Belle offers him a cockeyed grin. "Me too. Thank you for Jonathan." She pats her belly. "Or Jason."

He shakes his head firmly. "It's a girl, my love. Trust me. It's a girl."

* * *

Emma informs the prisoners one afternoon that in three days, there will be a hearing before Her Honor Blue and His Honor James. "Beretrude and I have requested it, a review of your progress here, and a reconsideration of your status."

Regina puzzles, "Status? We're not eligible for parole."

"No," Emma agrees, "you're not, but there are other things. I got a letter last week from Bertie Weaver, reminding me I have some options I can explore." She winks at them. "And I decided to exercise my prerogative and explore 'em. Beretrude's helped me prepare a brief."

On the morning of the hearing, Emma brings them suits to wear. "We're going give this our best shot." She's wearing her dress uniform, complete with black tie. Beretrude is wearing her white silk, which causes Rumple to quirk an eyebrow. As she releases him from his cage, she says, "The agreement will be fulfilled."

The officers escort the prisoners, minus the handcuffs but under a spell, to the judge's chambers. Mother Superior and James sit on the backside of the desk; the prisoners and the guards sit on the other.

And then Henry and his city council enter and stand at the back of the small room. Regina and Rumple exchange a shrug; neither has been informed of the nature of today's proceedings.

"I've received your report, Sheriff Swan," Mother Superior begins. "And the proposal from your former employee, Osbert Weaver, and the petition from the mayor and city council of Storybrooke II." She nods at those special guests. "Welcome, Mr. Mayor, Councilpersons. I read all these documents carefully and consulted the laws of this town and this state. I am now prepared to hear your presentations."

Emma rises. "I'd like to defer to Mayor Henry Mills Swan first, Your Honor."

"Very well. Mr. Mayor?"

Henry steps forward, and Regina mists over at the sight of her adopted son in suit and tie. Clear-eyed and direct, unafraid, he makes his appeal. "Thank you, Your Honor. And thank you for agreeing to see us today. Ladies and gentlemen, the government of Storybrooke II has come here today to make the request of a loan. Your government has already given us so much, we're sure our town will succeed. We promise we'll make you proud. We thank you for all you've given us, but we need to ask one thing more, something we realize we ought to have to make our community strong. We"—he indicates his town council—"are the future. We bring our energy, our ideas, our commitment and our vision to this enterprise, but we also realize that the past bears value too. We need the experience and insight of the past to help us create the future. And so the citizens of Storybrooke II ask you for one more gift: the loan of talent.

"We ask you to loan to us Regina Mills and Rumplestiltskin Gold, to serve us in Storybrooke II as special advisors to our city council."

This is not news to James or Mother Superior: they have the written request before them. Still, hearing it spoken aloud makes it real and irreversible, and the two authorities turn pale. Mother Superior finds her voice. "And the duration of this—loan?"

"For the remainder of their lives."

"You know, of course, that both of these individuals were sentenced to life in prison. They are considered dangerous"—Emma crosses her arms at this but refrains from sniffing in derision. "We remind you, their crimes included numerous murders."

"Yes, Your Honor," Henry says, "we've given that full consideration. And we intend to respect the laws of our sister city, from whose example we have formed our own laws. We recognize the seriousness of their crimes and we are in full agreement that their punishment, which was right and just, must be carried out. In our community, they will be monitored, using the same methods and rules that you have. We will house them, not in a prison but in proper houses, but their movements will be restricted: they will not be permitted to leave our city limits. They will not be permitted the rights of a citizen to vote or run for office or own firearms or consume alcohol. And we do have a prison, so if they should violate even the smallest of our laws, the privilege of living in their own quarters will be revoked and they will return to prison. But Your Honors, these two people have knowledge and wisdom that we need to draw upon, to supplement our own inexperience. They are our link to the past, our elders, and we need them."

Regina fumbles in her pockets but she doesn't have a hanky. Rumple loans her his, and then he has to use his sleeve to blot his eyes.

Emma rises again. "As, uh, those documents you've got in front of you there show, the sheriff's department and prison staff recommend acceptance of this proposal, Your Honors. Bertie Weaver's report there cites other examples when lifers—uh, when prisoners who've been sentenced to life—were given an opportunity for a work-release program. Yeah, it's unusual, but the law does allow it, in certain rare circumstances, and we recommend it, every one of us. You've got all our signatures on that recommendation. Now if it's okay, one of my staff would like to give evidence that might help you decide."

Mother Superior's eyes widen as Beretrude steps forward. The nun gulps and nods, and the guard rests her hands on the backs of the prisoners' chairs in a gesture of solidarity. Only when Rumple glances at her hand resting near his shoulder does he realize that she's shining, her magic and the Master's blessing radiating from her skin. A hasty glance informs Rumple that Waldo too is glowing in his other uniform, the one he wears when he's publicly representing the Master.

When she speaks, there's something soothing in Beretrude's voice. "I have a message—a request—from the One some of you call the Source and others call the Morning Star. To Walderan and me, He is the Master, and we help to do His work here. The Master has commanded that we, all of us, must respect the laws of the land to which we've been sent. So it is for all of us, human and heavenly being alike; and so too for the former Evil Queen and the Dark One. But your laws also recognize the possibility of reformation and allow for a measure of forgiveness, just as my Master's laws do. And so my Master has sent me here to speak on behalf of Regina and Rumplestiltskin, for just as Henry does, they have work to which the Master wishes to call them.

"I am bid to request of you that you release them into Walderan's and my custody for the remainder of their sentence—that is, the remainder of their lives. Walderan and I will live in houses nearby theirs; we will monitor their movements and their conduct, so that the sentence of your court can be carried out, and we will use our magic ensure their compliance. Further, the Master asks of you that Rumplestiltskin be permitted to live with his wife, for they were chosen for each other, each to help the other. I personally will vouchsafe the safety of the citizens of Storybrooke II."

Rumple and Regina clutch each other's hands. It's too much, all this love and support they're receiving, too much to take in.

"Mayor James and I have discussed this matter at length, in preparation for this meeting," Mother Superior says. "We—Emma, Henry, we were prepared to say no. Though we admire the good in your intent, we believed to grant this request would only endanger you. But, uh, in light of this new information"—she glances at Beretrude—"I'd like to take a short recess so James and I can talk it over." She rises, and James, whose face has blotched red and white, rises too.

"Excuse us," he says, and the two officials retreat to her private office.

The room erupts in noise: exclamations of gratitude, hope, certainty that the request will be granted; promises on all sides that trust will never be violated; plans for precisely how Regina and Rumple will fit into the new government. There are hugs and kisses and tears, even from Emma, who suddenly gets an idea. "Hey, Henry, you're going to need a sheriff."

"We've hired one, Mom; he starts September 1. Bertie Weaver. But he's going to need some advice in setting up his office. Suppose Gramps might loan you out to us, too, for a couple of weeks?"

"If he won't," Emma promises, "I'll be there anyway. I've got vacation coming."

"They're coming back," Regina announces as the door to the inner office opens. Everyone falls silent.

James and Mother Superior seat themselves. "Mayor Swan," the Reverend Mother says, "in light of—well, everything—the City of Storybrooke and the Seventh District Court grant your request. Beretrude, the prisoners are remanded to your custody, beginning September 1. We will expect monthly reports." She rises. "This hearing is adjourned."

And she's immediately surrounded by city councilpersons, who hug her tiny frame, and her partner is also besieged with hugs and handshakes.

As his back is pounded in congratulations, Rumple clears his throat. "Does, ah, does anyone have a phone I can borrow? I need to call Belle."

"No you don't." A sweet voice cuts though the noise, and he stands, shifting from side to side to get a clear view of the entrance to the chambers, where she stands, grinning, her hand resting on her now protruding belly.

He rushes to her, and no one tries to stop him: there's no concern that he will try to run away. As he sweeps her up, he informs her, "We're going to be together, Belle. We're going home."

"Do you think," she wonders, "we can take the cabin with us?"

* * *

It's not the cabin, but it's a lovely cottage all the same, with a nursery decorated by Snow White and a library stocked by the Storybrooke II Welcome Wagon.

Beretrude pushes the door open and stands aside. "Welcome to your new home."

Rebel leaps out of Belle's tote bag and waltzes into _her_ new home, her tail straight up, delicately sniffing each item of furniture, rubbing her head against the moldings to mark her territory. She pronounces it good and settles on a cat bed near the fireplace.

Belle too makes her rounds, inspecting the rooms, the furnishings, the linens, the cookware. She exclaims over the microwave and the well-stocked pantry, and she cuddles the shiny saucepans, crepe pans, griddles and skillets. When she proceeds to the nursery, she dissolves into tears.

Beretrude gives them time to explore, then as Belle plugs in her new electric teakettle and prepares a tray, the messenger takes Rumple outside. "There's more," she says as they walk the grounds. "The Master has a second job for you here. He asks it as a personal favor."

"Of course. Anything." Rumple admires the flowers that have been planted along the walkway, the herb and vegetable gardens in the back . . .the sandbox and swing set in the park across the road, where tomorrow's children will play, his daughter among them. "I. . . I can't begin to say how grateful I am."

"You will earn it, Rumplestiltskin. With your stories, you will fuel the imaginations of this town's children, just as you did their parents'. You will teach them their heritage, help them prepare for their own hero's journeys." She lays a hand on his arm, turns to face him, and her eyes are lit with magic. "And the Master asks that as you teach them these things, you teach them also about Him. Help them to resist evil and to reach out in faith."

"Are you saying—"

"The Master invites you to accept the role of holy man."

His breath moves in and out of his lungs. His heart beats steadily in his chest. But he feels suspended, no longer a prisoner of time. He swallows, his mouth dry. "Holy man. I, the Dark One, a holy man."

"The Dark One hasn't existed for years. Though we're counting on your memory of him. There's no one better to advise these young people than someone who's been remade."

"And when I have questions, don't know how to help them, you and Waldo will be here."

"And the Master. The Master is always listening."

She leads him back inside, and as Belle calls them to the kitchen for tea, she directs his attention to the fireplace in the parlor, where Rebel sleeps. And where there now waits a familiar spinning wheel. "It's yours, from the prison," she says. "I thought you might like to have it."

He gives it a fond spin. "I'll make good use of it. And I'll do my best to make good."

"When you spin," Beretrude says, "remember you are now to spin to the left."

"As only holy men do," he says softly.

* * *

In the morning a new party of professionals arrives in Storybrooke II. The mayor, his city council and his advisors greet them as Belle and Jefferson lead them through the portal. There are teachers, tailors, poets, chefs, computer technicians, astronomers and botanists and chemists, pharmacists and nurses and doctors. Most are under the age of 30, but one party is older, and the Gold family will host them for lunch as soon as their luggage has been taken to their new homes.

Among this older party are three who are already near and dear to the Golds: the new sheriff, his wife and his daughter. They embrace and there are kisses all around, and Rumple sweeps his goddaughter on his hip. "Rum," Bertie steps back and waves another couple forward. "You remember my mom, Shannon Weaver; she's going to be an accountant for the City of Storybrooke II. And this is the new emergency services chief at the hospital, my dad, Bill Weaver. Folks, this is Rumplestiltskin and his wife, Belle."

Shannon shakes the Golds' hands and accepts their welcome, but her husband stands rooted to the ground, the blood draining from his tanned face. Bertie frowns. "What's wrong, Dad?"

Rumple-Gold's hands begin to shake; he doesn't know why.

"Did you say. . . 'Rumplestiltskin'?" the doctor's baritone voice quavers. He gapes at the holy man. "Is that—is that really your name?"

"Yes, I—" Rumple freezes, his tongue locked in his mouth. Something's happening and he can't quite grasp it, but his senses inform him his world has just tilted sideways.

"Are you. . . " the doctor moves just an inch forward, removes his designer eyewear, brushes the back of his hand against his eyes. "Are you the spinner Rumplestiltskin?"

"I was once, and will be again." Rumple takes a step forward. "Bill Weaver—was that always your name?"

The doctor shakes his head slowly. "Baelfire. My name was Baelfire."


	66. Chapter 66

Sixty-Six

There's a gasp behind him; Belle exclaims, "Bae!"

Rumple-Gold takes a step forward. He's not sure what he's going to do; Bae is just staring at him inscrutably. Chloe squirms on his hip and he glances at her, suddenly remembering he's holding her. Chloe—Clotild, named for Estrilda's mother, grandmother of Baelfire—points at Belle and asks in her little-lady voice, "May I see Belle, Godpapa?" Rumple collects his wits and sets her down. The girl scampers off.

She's broken the spell. Bae and Rumple both blink, breathe again, and Rumple opens his arms in invitation, leaving it to Bae to decide what to do next.

Bae replaces his eyeglasses and stares, seeking something in his father's face. He seems to find it, because he clears his throat and steps into the hug, and the two men's grip on each other, at first light and questioning, gradually tightens, and soon Rumple is weeping against his son's shoulder, his son the doctor, his son who's a head taller than Rumple and dressed in a suit that Gold would envy, his son who's a father himself and a grandfather—

Pressed against his son's dark blue jacket, Rumple suddenly realizes he doesn't have just a son: he has a grandson, Bertie—Osbert, named for Bae's grandfather—a grandson he's loved without even knowing they were family. And he has a—he wonders if there's such a thing as a "granddaughter-in-law"? If not, they'll have to invent it, because now that he knows Zoe is part of his family, he's going to claim her to the world. And he has a great-granddaughter, who's now in his wife's arms, chattering away about the tea party they're going to have as soon as they get back to the house, as soon as they get _home_.

Against his son's dark blue jacket, the three-hundred-something-year-old spinner allows himself to cry, unembarrassed, because his long, long search is over, the Master has followed through on his end of the deal, and Baelfire is _home_.

The doctor's chest heaves. He's crying too.

They don't have to say anything. There's no need to hurry. The women and Bertie are engaged in a lively conversation about the amazing discovery that's just happened, with Bertie laughing and shaking his head: all these years, all these years and he never suspected that the man he was guarding, the man he was befriending, the man he was supposed to counsel who was instead counseling him, was family.

Rumple realizes he needs a handkerchief or he'll ruin his son's jacket. He pulls back just enough to fumble in his breast pocket. Bae—_Bae!_—clears his throat and lets go with one arm, the other arm still around his father's shoulders: he too has to have a handkerchief. They take a moment to sort themselves out. Bae clears his throat again. "I wondered. . . When I read Osbert's report from the prison, I wondered if Prisoner X was you. There were so many similarities. But it was too coincidental, that we would end up in the same state."

Rumple smiles: they're going to have to have a long talk about the difference between coincidence and miracles.

Bae draws in a cleansing breath, glances up at the sky. "I guess we've got a lot of catching up to do. . . Dad."

The tears start again for Rumple, but he manages to remark, "We have plenty of time."

* * *

The pawnbroker would have smirked at this scene; the imp would have giggled in derision, for Rumple-Gold, now in his shirt sleeves, his tie and shoes left behind somewhere, is stretched out in a lounge chair in his backyard, a glass of iced tea in one hand, the other hand gesturing as he talks about the old days (not "the _good_ old days," for he's filling Bae in on the thousands of failed searches). His son the doctor has likewise shed jacket and tie, and sits in a matching chaise lounge.

Across the road, but well within shouting distance, Belle, Zoe and Bertie are playing in the park with Chloe. Inside the house, Shannon is taking a nap.

The men talk through the afternoon, learning the facts of each other's lives over the years of their separation—for Bae, 35 years; for Rumple, centuries—learning that in those years there were days of determination, days of discovery, days of anger and joy, days of faith and days of despair. Each man admits that at various points, he gave up the search, but he never gave up the hope.

They watch the sun set together, and it's spectacular in its display of colors, and it reminds Rumple they're not alone, never were alone in all those years of searching. As the moon replaces the sun and their family ambles inside to start supper, Rumple raises his now empty glass to the sky in a salute. "Thank you," he says.

The Master's answer comes from deep within him: _My agreements are always honored._

* * *

In their first day of work, Regina and Rumple meet with the city council. The councilpersons are working on a vision for Storybrooke II five years from now. The elders smile at this: a town only three days old is already planning for the future. It's a wise move, they agree.

At 3:00, the mayor ducks out for a few minutes; when he returns, he's dressed in sweatpants and cleats, and a sweatshirt with a fire-breathing dragon emblazoned on the front. The emblem is labeled "SBII Dragons," and the back of the sweatshirt reads "Coach."

As his mother continues to work with the council, Henry draws Rumple aside. "We don't have enough kids living here yet to form teams," he says, "but we're going to play anyway. It's important to the kids we do have." He shrugs. "It's important to us grown-ups too, spending time with kids, even if they aren't your own. I learned that from you."

Rumple nods. "I got as much out of those visits as you kids did."

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Mr. Gold, because I was hoping you'd continue that tradition here."

Rumple is flattered—and moved. "I'll be glad to. Why you don't bring them by the house after practice? I can introduce spinning to them along with a story."

And so a tradition is continued and a new one begun. As the children—there are only seven now, but that will change—watch in fascination, Rumple spins and tells his first story in this new-old land. He tells the tale of a mage who chose power over love, until the Master taught him better.

* * *

It isn't easy. There are accusations and incriminations that threaten, but nothing will drive them apart ever again; the men are dead-set on that. Through the rough patches they talk to their wives and to Bertie when they can't talk to each other, and sometimes it's Chloe who cuts through the nonsense and brings them back together. Eventually the men learn to let the past alone and work on building the foundation for their family's future.

And gradually, through the example of his son, who forgave him for his own bad behavior, Bae learns to forgive Rumplestiltskin.

* * *

Belle takes leave from her job in January. She still works from home, but she spends her days in her fuzzy bathrobe and her bunny slippers, lounging in bed or pattering to the kitchen to cook lavish meals she boxes into plastic containers and carries to the Weavers and Regina. She's experimenting with German cooking now.

As January gives way to February, she turns the business over entirely to Jefferson and she hangs up her pans. She spends her days reading in bed until her husband returns home, and then she sits beside the fire, the cat on her lap, or the blue blanket she's knitting, and she listens to him tell stories to this year's group of children, ten of them now, but in the spring there will be more; Henry's recruited more families to SBII. When the children have gone, sometimes her husband gives her lessons at the wheel. She is happier, though, just to watch him spin, and happiest when he holds his great-granddaughter (_their_ great-granddaughter, for Chloe is hers too by heart if not by blood, and the Weavers make no such fine distinctions) on his lap and shows her how to move the wheel.

Chloe tolerates these attempts to teach her, for her great-grandpapa's sake, but she'd really rather be climbing the jungle gym at the park. As the baby shifts, Chloe pats Belle's belly and talks to the baby, shouting at him/her to come out and play, then pressing her ear against the belly to listen for a reply. "When will she come out, Great-Grandmama?" she asks.

"Soon. Soon," Belle assures her. "But it will be a boy. Will you play with him anyway, Chloe?"

"I suppose," the child answers. "But she can't swing on the swings, can she?" Chloe just can't stop using the feminine pronoun.

* * *

A week before the baby is due, there's a knock on the cottage door that interrupts the story session and awakens Belle from her nap (she now sleeps sitting up, in a rocking chair beside the fireplace; her back hurts when she lies down). She struggles to get up to answer the door, but Rumple waves her back down and he answers it himself, still talking to the children as he pulls the door open. And then he breaks off in mid-story.

The visitor is Moe. He has a suitcase, and there's a crust of snow in his hair. Rumple peeks around him to discover that snow is falling.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course." Rumple stands aside. "Come in, please."

Belle forgets for a moment that she's walking for two now; she runs at her father and grabs him, kissing his frosty cheek. "Father!"

"Kids," Rumple makes the introductions. "This is Belle's father, Mr. French. Mr. French, the Storybrooke Dragons." As the children say hello, Rumple heads off to the kitchen to pour the visitor a cup of coffee. When he returns, Belle has taken Moe's coat and his suitcase, setting them on the couch, and she's ushered her father into her own rocking chair, drawing it closer to the fire. "Here, Father, you need to warm up. You're freezing!"

Rumple picks up the threads he'd been spinning, the one that will someday become cloth and the one that will someday become a lesson or a fond memory for the children. As he continues, Belle and Moe chat quietly, until their conversation gradually fades and they become caught up in Rumple's story too. When it's ended, Rumple helps the Dragons into their coats and mittens, and then grins as he opens the door for them and they discover the snow. They run out, squealing, and he reminds them they mustn't play too long; their suppers at waiting at home. One of the girls scrapes up enough damp snow to pat a snowball into shape and she throws it at him; he catches it expertly, as she laughs, "Mr. Gold, you should be our catcher!" He laughs as the snow ball melts in his hand, and he closes the door.

As Rumple gathers the children's cocoa mugs and washes them in the kitchen, Moe explains, "I thought I'd come for a short visit, if that's okay. I'll be staying at the inn. I thought I'd like to be here when the baby comes."

Belle picks up a dishtowel and dries the mugs. "Thank you, Father. I know what this must be costing you, to leave the shop at this time of year." For it's February 12, and Valentine's Day is Game of Thorns' biggest day of the year.

"I hired a temp." Moe stands by awkwardly until Belle opens the cupboard and shows him where the mugs go. As he busies himself, he asks, "Is it all right. . . " he doesn't know what to call his son-in-law, so he tries, "Gold, for me to be here?"

Rumple glances over his shoulder. "You're welcome, Moe. Any time." He drains the sink and moves to the refrigerator, pulling out food. "Honey, you go back and sit down. Your father and I will get supper on."

"My ankles have swollen," Belle apologizes, patting her belly. "We expect him to arrive any day now."

"Off with you, now," Rumple steers her by the shoulders back to her rocking chair. "If you stay on your feet any longer your shoes won't fit." Moe watches them as Rumple assists Belle in sitting down. Rumple takes off Belle's shoes and massages her feet before drawing her bunny slippers on. There's a funny look on Moe's face as he trails Rumple back into the kitchen and accepts a paring knife. "You mind K. P. duty, Moe?" Rumple brings him a bag of potatoes and a bowl.

As he pats hamburger into patties, Rumple tries to make conversation. Clearly uncomfortable, Moe pretends to focus on the potatoes. "It's burger night," Rumple explains. "Belle's favorite. The trick is a little steak sauce in the patty." He demonstrates.

As the skillet hisses and spatters around the meat, Rumple washes his hands and puts the potatoes on to boil. He puts Moe to work setting the table, and they chat idly about the weather, about how things are back in Storybrooke, about this new generation that's building a town in a world apart from their parents'. As the small talk runs down, Rumple flips the burgers. Spatula in hand, he leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Thank you," he says in the silence. "It means a lot to Belle that you're here to support her and to meet the baby."

"Thanks for letting me in," Moe mutters.

"I'm sorry, for that time I attacked you," Rumple offers, in an equally low voice. "Back in the old world, I was told you'd caused Belle's death, and I believed it. But that doesn't justify what I did."

"I know about the asylum," Moe says. "I guess if some queen had told me you had killed Belle, I would've come after you." He changes the subject, talking about last month's Super Bowl, and Rumple takes this as a signal that they're done living in the past.

Rumple pokes a fork in the potatoes and inspects the burgers. "Supper's ready," he decides. "You want to help Belle in? She has a little trouble getting out of chairs."

"Sure." Moe stands, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Hey, uh—what do you want to be called, anyway?"

"Most people call me Rumplestiltskin, or Rumple. Are you going by Moe or Maurice?"

The florist shrugs. "You know what? I like my curse identity better. I'd rather deal with flowers than ogres."

Rumple grins. "I get you. I'd rather deal with hamburger than potions."

"Rumple," Moe tries it out; it's clumsy on his tongue, but he'll get used to it. "I, uh, just wanted to say, thanks for taking good care of her."

"I'd do anything for her," Rumple assures him. He drains the water off the potatoes; the steam makes his hair curl and for a moment he looks to Moe a little like the imp of old.

Then Moe seems to decide something and he shakes his head slightly. "I'll go get Belle."

* * *

She pokes him awake.

He emerges from the blankets to find her fully dressed, her suitcase ready at the bedroom door. She holds out his jeans and his shirt. "It's time to go to the hospital."

He shoots out of bed, yanking his clothes on over his pajamas as she starts to dial her phone. She stops in mid-dial, and he frowns. "What's wrong?"

There's a sly glint her eye—he recognizes it; she's in the mood for mischief. "Let's let Doctor Tippet sleep in. Isn't the chief of emergency services on duty tonight?"

He knows Bae's work schedule as well as she does. "Yeeeees."

Belle runs a hairbrush through her hair. "Hurry, darling, get dressed." And then, as she usually does whenever she thinks of Bae, she shakes her head in amazement and mutters, "Right under our noses. All those years, he was right under our noses."

* * *

Their daughter is born at 5 a.m. on February 14. "My Valentine," Belle coos sleepily at the blanketed bundle in her arms. She yawns. "How did you know she was a girl? Did you have a vision?"

Rumple-Gold shakes his head and kisses his wife's hand. "I heard it from the Master."

Bae taps his tablet with a stylus, then yawns too and drops the tablet into his lab coat. "Okay, that's that. Everyone's vitals are normal," he slugs his father's shoulder playfully. "Even yours. I'm off-duty now, but I'm leaving you in good hands. Doctor Tippet will be in to see you shortly."

"Thank you, Bae." Belle says. "You do good work. It hardly hurt at all."

"Liar," Bae chuckles. "I've delivered about thirty of these over my career, and I've yet to come across a case that didn't hurt. By the way, the nurse will be in soon to register the birth, and I expect the newspaper and the TV station will be calling. You know, first baby born in the new world and all that. We can tell 'em to shove off, if you want."

"I don't mind, if they'll wait until tomorrow," Belle says. "For now, I'd just like a few minutes with my father, and then I need some sleep." She passes the baby to Rumple.

On cue, a nurse's aid comes in with a wash basin and a hairbrush. Bae gives the baby a pat and assures Rumple he'll be back later, after he's made his rounds.

After the ladies are washed and Belle's combed her hair, Moe is allowed to visit for just a few minutes. It's not yet visiting hour, but the hospital makes exceptions like this: people first, rules second, is one of SBII's mottos. Moe's an unshaven, rumpled mess, having spent the last five hours in the waiting room reading old issues of _Ladies Home Journal_. He brings a bouquet of yellow roses and baby's breath (he apologizes for these; they came from the hospital gift shop and aren't up to his standards); he kisses Belle, kisses the baby, gets flustered and almost kisses Rumple, who settles for a handshake. He bounces the baby and takes a dozen photos with his Smartphone before a nurse ushers him out. He stops in the doorway and the nurse makes an impatient mouth at him. "Before I go, I forgot to ask: what's her name?"

Belle is handing the baby to Rumple; she's almost asleep already. "Jason," she mumbles, which is the name she chose in the beginning and the name she's stuck with all these months, but then she giggles. "Oh, that's right, we're going to need a new name."

Rumple brings the baby to his chest. As his daughter opens her eyes and stares at him, Rumple knows who she is. "Adela." He glances at Belle. "If it's all right with her mother."

Belle's eyes flash in recognition. "Baelfire, Adela, Leicia, Saer," she remembers. "From the Master. Yes. Her name is Adela." She lies back on her pillows and closes her eyes. "Gifts from the Master."

* * *

When Belle awakens, she finds her husband dozing in an armchair at her bedside, the baby sprawled across his chest, sleeping with her ear pressed against his heart. Her rosebud mouth moves as she sleeps; Belle hates to disturb them, but the girl needs to be fed—_Belle _needs for the baby to be fed; she's swollen to the point of discomfort. She removes Rumple's hand from the baby's back so she can take the baby, and she crawls back into bed. It takes a couple of tries, but between them Belle and her daughter get the milk production underway. It's a strange sensation; Belle feels a gentle tugging all over her body, and soon she's lulled in a trancelike state, just as her baby is. She wonders if this is what Rumple feels when he spins, this twilight state; she's half asleep yet her senses are heightened, and she's cocooned in serenity.

Her husband stirs and snuffles, then sits up wide awake, clutching at his chest and gasping in panic.

"I have her," Belle chuckles, and the baby stops nursing long enough to stare across the bed, staring directly at her father.

Rumple rubs his face with his hands and yawns. "I thought I dropped her," he admits, his voice heavy with sleep.

"You need to go home and go to bed," Belle urges.

"This is home, for now," he insists. "Where you go, I go."

"The Dragons will be coming for their story."

Rumple grins evilly. "It's okay. Moe will be there; he'll fill in for me."

* * *

He can feel magic all around him. He can hear it crackling in the atmosphere as he gazes up at the nighttime stars; he can smell it as he enters City Hall; he can taste it in his wife's kisses. Everyone, it seems, has magic except him and his descendants. Sometimes he feels left out, left behind, but never powerless, never powerless, for whatever would this town do without him?

One morning as he spins, his daughter Leicia, babbling at his feet, suddenly looks him directly in the eye, unafraid, unaware she's staring at the man whose very name dared not be spoken aloud, back in the day; Leicia the bold stares him directly in the eye and demands his attention with a loud wail. And then Rumplestiltskin smiles because after all the centuries of searching he's discovered the secret to everlasting power.

It's love.

And so he takes Leicia onto his knee and places the baby's hands on the wheel. She squirms in his arms; the wheel holds no interest for her; she's only happy when he turns her around and she can see his face, hear his voice. She is most content when the Dragons come in the afternoons and she holds court, babbling at them from her father's lap as he tells his stories, until the vibrations of his voice in his chest lull her to sleep.

She will never make a spinner, Rumple knows; she's destined to make her mark with words. She makes him nervous sometimes: she will have a great power, the ability to mend broken relationships between nations. Where her father required magic to end a war, she will spin speeches that prevent wars from happening in the first place.

He will leave most the disciplining of this child to Belle. He's overawed by her. Her older sister, now that's _his_ soul reborn; they've understood each other from the very first moment he held her. Though he knows her fame will come from her work in other media, she has a spinner's hands, a spinner's patience. He sees it in her already; though she's only three, she will sit quietly for hours in his lap, her hands beneath his as he spins. And at night, when he tucks her in, as her sister babbles from the crib, Adela looks up at him with her large eyes, memorizing him. She says nothing, and he doesn't feel the need to speak in these moments either; she simply reaches up to grasp his hands, moving them under hers, spinning air. This is how they communicate, through their art, and it's how they always will.

There will be one more child. He's still in heaven now, waiting his turn. His name is Saer, and he will have Leicia's gift for words and Belle's love of books and his father's knowledge of the human heart. When his father passes from this earth, he will be the village holy man, and his work will make Leicia's possible, as he teaches the children of Storybrooke II to love peace and to listen to the Master's voice. Rumplestiltskin is in awe of these children, whose physical forms he and his wife have made through the power of love, but whose souls were fashioned long ago by the Master's own hand.

Rumplestiltskin sets Leicia down in her high chair as Belle comes in from work. The baby loves to sit up high, where she can supervise her family. Belle kisses her forehead, then dashes into the bathroom for a quick shower. Supper is in the oven, Rumple's famous pot roast, and soon the family will be seated around the kitchen table in their bunny slippers.

But there is time yet, so Rumple takes Adela onto his lap and she rests her head against his chest as he works at his wheel. He continues to spin, not for money or power, not to forget, but to leave a legacy.

* * *

**A/N. The spirit for this chapter came from Sting's "Dead Man's Rope." We're almost at the end: just a brief epilogue to go. **


	67. Chapter 67

Sixty-Seven: Epilogue

**A/N. This story has been such a big part of my life these past five months that I'm sorry to let it go, but Rumple-Gold says it's time. Here's fair warning: you may find this epilogue sad. Personally, I think it's the most optimistic ending I could offer, but you may not agree. The mood-setters for this epilogue were Leonard Cohen's "Anthem" and Sting's "Fields of Gold," so if you've heard those songs, you'll kind of know what to expect here. ("Anthem" describes, for me, a reformed Rumple.)**

**And for anyone who might jump off at this point, I want to extend my thank-you's to everyone who's stuck with "Spinning." Your encouragement gave me the courage of Belle to try some out-there ideas. The hardest of all was the decision to allow Rumple to be sentenced to life in prison. It was hard on **_**my**_** system to do that, but morally, I had to do it, and I think it's the best thing we Rumbellers can hope for: that Rumple gets an opportunity to pay his debt so he can go to Belle and Bae with an unfettered soul. So thank you, everyone, and especially, thank you, Dracomom, Cynicsquest, Grace, Aradieva, JoyLee, Rene, Meva Desa, Ygritte the Huntress, Jaselin, Travelg, Linerj, Marcie Gore, Irisrose, Anonymous Nerd Girl, Stineblicher, YoukalNemisis, SkyBlueSw, White Raven, ButterflyRogue, TheMadFiddler, MyraValhallah, Cu Chulainn 1945, Destiny001, NightowlsNest, SqueakyDolphin6 and Paulsmum2001.**

* * *

Rumplestiltskin is perched on a rafter in a well-kept, though mish-mashed, cottage. It's been added onto over the years to make room for babies and the seams between the old and the new aren't perfect. The furnishings too are an odd mixture of the very old and the very new: there's a spinning wheel beside the fireplace in the living room, for instance, while on the antique roller top desk in the bedroom, there's a clutter of all sorts of electronic devices, some of them experimental, gifts from the computer scientists, engineers and inventors that Storybrooke II has produced over the years—men and women who spent a little bit of their childhoods in the company of an old spinner, a man who, through his stories, taught them to appreciate old things and old people, taught them to search for the hero within themselves, taught them to seek love in all times and places, taught them how to find the Master.

So Rumplestiltskin is sitting in the rafters, invisible to all, just like the old days, and he's wearing his leathers again, and he feels fit as a fiddle, for the first time in many years. He feels powerful, too, but then, he always has, since coming here. Or maybe _powerful_ isn't the right word: he thinks _empowered_ might be more accurate. He has come to understand the difference.

He wonders if he has his magic back, but the question doesn't keep his interest for long, because something's happening down there, on the ground, in the bedroom he recognizes, the bedroom that loosens a flood of emotions in him.

Crowded around a bed—he remembers it's a hospital bed; its head and feet can be raised with the touch of a button—are. . . .he stops to count them. . . nine people. Nine! Whatever they've gathered for, it must be important. He takes one face at a time. His memory's tricky, though it seems to be clarifying now. Sometimes he can recall every detail of an insignificant moment that occurred four hundred years ago, yet he couldn't tell you what he had for breakfast this morning. Or worse, who came to see him. Names give him a hard time, and he _hates_ that: he's known for centuries that names have power. Sometimes it frustrates him to tears: he can tell you every line in a friend's face, but he can't identify the owner.

Some days he's not sure of his own name. On those days he hides in the bathroom and turns on the shower so no one can hear him cry.

But not today. Today, he remembers everyone! Everything!

Gathered around the bed are nine people. At the head of the bed, on the side nearest the wall, is his son Saer. Saer is holding an old man's hand, and the two of them are praying together. Rumplestiltskin smiles because he knows the Master is listening; He always does; and he knows the Master has a special place in His heart for these two men.

At the head of the bed on the opposite side is Baelfire. He's holding the old man's wrist, taking the pulse. Bae retired from the hospital a few years ago and now spends much of his time fishing. He used to fish with the old man, until the old man became bedridden; and now he fishes with his son or his grandchildren. Sometimes he misses his work, so he teaches CPR classes occasionally, just to keep his hand in, but when the old man became ill, he pulled his medical bag out of mothballs. He's not the old man's primary physician—that would be unethical—but he's on standby every day, just in case. And it seems today is one of those needful days.

At Bae's elbow is his son, Bertie, and Bertie's wife Zoe. They've taken today off work. By city ordinance, all employers in Storybrooke II must grant a time off for when a loved one is seriously ill. Don't wait until it's too late, the city council urges; spend time with your loved ones before they slip away. No one abuses this right; it's too honored a law. The fact that Bertie and Zoe are here clues Rumple in that the old man is in serious trouble.

Seated beside Saer is—Rumple catches his breath. It's Belle. After all these years, she still takes his breath away. He knows every line in her face and he adores them all. They only punctuate the exclamation point in her eyes. Admiring her from the rafters, he longs to sweep her into his arms, dip her backwards and kiss her wildly. Funny, he hasn't had that much energy in years, though the thought was always there.

Standing beside Belle is Leicia. She has just arrived, compliments of the Spinning Hat Travel Agency, from Iran and is dressed in a smart business suit—she learned the power of clothes from her father. She makes the old man nervous, always has: so perceptive (Belle says she got those qualities from her father), so smart (seven languages she speaks). Leicia is Belle's child through and through, right down to that exclamation point. Those electronic gadgets are Belle's and she uses them to stay in touch with her world-traveling daughter. They talk a mile a minute, finishing each other's sentences.

Leicia has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize. Her only regret is that her father won't be able to accompany her to Norway to accept it if she wins. The old man assures her he'll be there, one way or another: the Master will see to that.

At the foot of the bed, perched on a stepladder, is Adela. Belle is the old man's heart, Saer is the old man's soul, and Bae is the blood in the old man's veins, but Adela—shy, sweet, quiet Adela—is the old man's spirit. Every single time he looks into her eyes, he sees the Adela he remembers from the prison, and hence, he sees the Master. Adela is hanging her newest painting on the wall, where the old man can see it from his bed. She's a landscape artist, and the painting depicts a cabin her parents used to own. She's never seen it, but the painting captures it perfectly. Somehow she's always been able to paint what was in her father's heart.

Standing right at the foot of the bed are Henry and Emma. Emma moved to SBII a year after it opened; she missed her son—and she missed Jefferson. A wedding soon took place, with the holy man officiating and Beretrude and Waldo assisting. Jefferson is gone now, but Henry and his wife have made sure Emma isn't lonely.

Regina too is gone; Henry and Emma were with her when Waldo came to her bedside, made a deep, elegant bow, then, linking her arm in his, escorted her to her new, final home. Waldo has gone on to another assignment, but Beretrude remains, keeping the Master's promise to James and Blue to guard the prisoner throughout his life sentence.

The window is open—it's a little chilly, but the old man insists on having the window open so he can hear the children playing in the park. Some of them are family by blood; the ones who aren't belong to the old man nonetheless, in spirit. All the children of Storybrooke II have learned at his feet.

And then there's the old man himself, the very old man. In recent years as he's felt his body running down, he's surrendered his work to his descendants. Now he watches Adela spin, listens to Saer tell the tales of old Fairytale Land, laughs at Bae's fish stories. But one job remains to the old man, and he accepts it willingly: he is teaching them how to die faithfully.

From the rafters Rumplestiltskin observes the old man. It won't be long now. Rumple is a little sad for all that old man will miss—but the old man leaves so much of himself behind that a part of him will continue for generations. And into the life that waits beyond this one, the old man will carry all the love and all the memories he's been blessed with here, but none of the pain. It's a time for celebration, the old man teaches his family: there _is_ life and love and purpose beyond, and when they all have unlocked sleep's final gate, they will never part again. As for him, his body has worn itself out, and he's ready to part from it.

Rumplestiltskin feels a tap on his shoulder and he turns his head, and then he leaps to his feet, balancing nimbly on a sunbeam pouring in from the open window. He opens his arms and is embraced and kissed by a woman in white. "Rumplestiltskin! You straightened up and flew right! I'm proud of you."

She looks exactly as he remembers.

"Helewise!" He's so overcome with joy that he just has to do a little jig, balancing on one foot on the sunbeam and giggling in that madcap way of old. He grasps her hands and she joins him in the jig, laughing so hard she falls off the sunbeam, but he seizes her wrist and draws her back up. Then he remembers that a fall wouldn't have hurt her anyway, and that makes him giggle again, and she giggles again. One more time she throws her arms about him. "Rumplestiltskin!"

"Helewise!"

She thrusts her hands on her hips. "Looking dapper, as always."

He bows in gratitude. "And you, glorious as always." As he straightens, his grin fades. "I've missed you. Where have you been? Why didn't you come back?"

She speaks gently, giving him time to think and adjust. "I passed on, Rumple. Out of the earthly realm. I couldn't come back. Only the Master is beyond the reach of death."

He catches on. "Ohhh. Then, since I'm talking to you, that means I'm 'out of the realm' too."

"Almost." They both turn to watch the scene taking place below. The old man and Saer are finishing their prayer, and listening to them, Helewise places a hand to her mouth. "Oh, Rumple." Her voice cracks and her eyes shine as she turns back to him. "I can't tell you what that means to me, to hear you and your son talking to the Master. The Master tells me you're one of His favorite conversationalists. Before you learned how to listen, there were times when you were struggling so hard, my heart broke for you. That time you climbed up to the tallest tower of the Dark Castle and threw your furniture off—"

He nods. "I remember. I was feeling low then."

"That's putting it mildly."

"Not as low as the night I lost Bae, though. That's him, by the way." Rumple points and pushes his chest out like a rooster ruling the coop. "The tall guy. A doctor. I can't any credit for that; the Master sent him to a good family and they raised him."

She touches his arm. "No, Rumple, don't think of it like that. It was you who taught him responsibility and compassion. Do you know why he became a doctor? Because you taught him to revere life."

"He forgave me," Rumplestiltskin says softly.

"A fine lad. They all are. I guess I can say 'I knew them when'—they were all highly regarded among us. That's why the Master sent them to you and Belle."

"To keep me on the straight and narrow?"

She shakes her head. "To reward them. They were the first class, Rumple. There will be many, many others."

"I don't follow. . . ."

"I'll show you, whenever you're ready to go."

"A moment more, please." She nods, and they sit down together on the sunbeam to watch the family, she holding his hand, as in the old days.

The old man's eyes are bright and clear for the first time in months. Some of his children take hope from this; Bae doesn't correct them, but he's seen this time and time again: a seeming recovery as the body pulls from all its corners the shreds of its energy, just before it releases the soul. Rumplestiltskin knows this too, and he cocks his head to listen.

A sly smile slides across the old man's lips. His voice is unwavering, as it was before he admitted he to himself that he was an old man and that it was time he conducted himself as one. He asks his wife to bring his jacket. "You know the one."

She does, and she chuckles as she squeezes past her children to the closet. She has to dig deep, but she finally finds the dragon-skin: it's cracked and worn too, though she's taken it out once a year to oil it. She brings it to him and helps him draw it on over his Hugo Boss shirt. She stands back to admire him, her Rumplestiltskin once more, one last time, and then she takes his hand and sits down on the bed beside him.

His eyes move slowly across each face; each time he blinks, a little of the light passes from them. When his gaze reaches Saer, the old man nods slightly, and his son nods back. Whatever they've just communicated in silence will remain between them.

Adela raises her face toward the sun streaming in from the window, and the breeze that follows. She sighs deeply as if she's awakening, and she murmurs something to her siblings. Quietly they depart the room, closing the door behind them, leaving the old man and his wife alone, except for the two who watch from above.

Belle presses her forehead to her husband's in a long familiar gesture. "What do you see, my darling?"

His voice is slipping away on the breeze now, but he doesn't really need it to answer her. "Helewise is here."

She draws his hand to her bosom and kisses his mouth. "Where you go, I go."

He grins at her crookedly. "It's forever—" His chest heaves as his body puts up one last fight. When he manages to steady his rebellious lungs, the fire catches in his eyes again, and they speak a lifetime of remembrances around the one word he finds breath enough to say, "Love."

In years to come, she will wonder if he meant it as a noun or a verb, and sometimes she'll decide her man of mystery probably meant it as both.

On the sunbeam Rumplestiltskin feels suddenly cold, in spite of his leathers. He rubs his arms as he watches Belle a moment more. She presses her lips to the old man's forehead, tucks his hand beneath his blanket. She tilts her head up and smiles, speaks to the air, "Thank you." And then, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she stands, straightens her skirt, raises her chin and goes out to her children.

Rumplestiltskin sighs. "All right. I'm ready." He stands too, and offers Helewise a hand up. The messenger tucks her arm in his and begins to walk along the sunbeam, and the bedroom, the cottage, the town fade away. His vision goes a little fuzzy for a moment; when he blinks to clear it, he finds they are walking along a dirt road that winds gradually up a hill and down again, past sheep fields, across a wooden bridge and into a village.

"I know this place." He struggles to remember. "I've been here before."

"You're coming home," Helewise says. She leads him past a blacksmith's, a tannery, and shops, to a hut at the center of the village, and then he remembers. "Alsford."

The heavy curtain closing the hut off is pushed aside and an old man, much older than Rumplestiltskin, and nearly blind, hobbles out to grasp his free arm. "Welcome, Rumplestiltskin. This is your home now."

Rumple embraces the old man. "Saer."

The old spinner brings Rumple inside, Helewise trailing.

There is a fire burning in the fireplace, and a fragrant stew bubbling over the fire. There is a mat in one corner and a rope bed in the other. There are bags of silk against one wall and a wooden table, set with bowls and spoons and mugs, against the other. Taking pride of place in the center of the room is a spinning wheel. Rumple seats himself on the stool and runs his hands along the smooth, warm wood.

"Is this my work now?" he asks Helewise. "Am I to spin for the Master?"

"In part. You will spin our robes." she says, then she steps back and raises the curtain. One by one, seven children dressed in the homespun of peasants enter the cottage and gather round the wheel. They are chattering and giggling to each other and smiling shyly at him. "You are Rumplestiltskin?" the tallest, a girl, asks. "We've been waiting for you." There's something striking about her heart-shaped face, her bold brown eyes; he peers closely at her. She's a photocopy of Snow White.

"Messengers-in-training," Helewise informs him. "Your second class."

Saer straightens his back and suddenly he appears to be young and strong, his eyes sharp, his voice steady. The ions in the atmosphere electrify, bringing Rumple to his feet. "From the time Helewise found you, as a newborn abandoned in the woods, this has been My plan for you, Rumplestiltskin. You will help My messengers understand the human heart in all its darkness and all its light. You will help them to understand the desperation that drives men to evil, and the hope that fetches them back again. You will teach them compassion so that they can truly love those whom they were created to serve."

"Thank you, Master," Rumplestiltskin bows his gratitude.

The Master reaches over the heads of children to squeeze his shoulder. "It's through these generations that we will win the final battle. I have been waiting a long time for you, son." He turns to leave, but pauses at the entrance to the hut. "Worry not; the helpmeet I promised you will return to your side before long." His mouth twitches and His eyes twinkle. "We always honor our bargains, do we not, Spinner?"

"Aye, Master. Always."

The Master turns, but adds over His shoulder, "Remember to spin to the left. You're a holy man here, too."

Rumplestiltskin watches the Master walk away, until the smallest child slips her hand in Rumple's and points to the wheel. "Will you show me how to use that?"

He sits on the stool again and lifts her onto his knee. "What's your name, little one?"

Her hands reach out for the wheel; he takes them in his own and demonstrates the movement for her, spinning to the left. She's fascinated by the motion of the spokes, but manages to answer him. "I'm called Regina."

* * *

In the bedroom of Belle's cottage, Bae and Shannon are packing the clothes that will be taken to Storybrooke I; the current Mr. Browning will mend them, then take them to the nuns, to be sold in a rummage sale, the proceeds going to repair the convent's leaky roof. Some days, the nuns imagine that they almost miss Mr. Gold, for despite his threats of eviction and rent raises, he still kept all his buildings in perfect order. Mr. Gold, they say, always took good care of his things.

Saer and his mother are sorting through Rumplestiltskin's library, seeking out the books that Storybrooke II's holy man will need to counsel and comfort the people. They flip through the books, pausing to read aloud underlined passages and penciled in notes. In one of the books, Saer finds a faded, folded sheet of stationery in an envelope that's addressed to "Husband."

"Mom?" Saer gives her the letter. Once it's removed from the book, he can see the underlined passage it was marking: "Whither thou goest. . . ."

Belle recognizes the envelope immediately, though it's been forty years. She withdraws the letter carefully; it's fragile from much handling. She remembers exactly what's written inside, but she reads it anyway: "'Where you go, we go, now and forever, if you will have us. Love, Belle.'"

Underneath, in another hand, have been added these words: "I'll wait for you, my love. Always and forever yours, Rumple."


End file.
